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0/1  E>  R.A  R.Y 
OF  THE 

U  N  1VER.5  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 


1912- 


Sis?  “■■■"  «  . . - 


f: 


,  mvo  |  $ 

OBC  2  a 


OCT  29  2002 


/U 


id  2  8  rar 


L161  —  0-1096 


PocKct  Itfplmg 


Under  the  Deodars 
The  Phantom  ’Rickshaw 
Wee  Willie  Winkie 


Under  the  Deodars/ 

The  Phantom  ’Rickshaw 

Wee  Willie  Winkie 

• 

• 

By  Rudyard  Kipling 

GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1912 

Copyright.  1895, 

By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 

Copyright,  1899, 

By  RUDYARD  KIPLING 


CONTENTS 


V  V** 
lAJ  v 


PAG* 


The  Education  of  Otis  Yeere 
\.t  the  Pit’s  Mouth  .  »  .  .  . 

A  Wayside  Comedy  .  .  0  .  . 

The  Pit  that  they  Digged  ,  „  „ 

The  Hill  of  Illusion  .  .  .  , 

A  Second-rate  Woman  . 

Only  a  Subaltern  .  .  „  ,  , 

The  Phantom  ’Rickshaw  . 

My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 
The  Track  of  a  Lie  . 

The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 
The  Man  who  would  be  King 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  . 

Baa  Baa,  Black  Sheep  . 

His  Majesty  the  King  „ 


iE  Drums  of  the  Pore  and  Aft  . 


1 
29 
37  ‘ 
52 
58 
71 
00 
1 14 
144 
155 
159 
189 

/ 

237  ' 

/ 

251 

288 


V 


303 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE 


I 

In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes 
‘  God  bless  all  our  gains,5  say  we ; 

But  4  May  God  bless  all  our  losses,5 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 

The  Lost  Bower. 

This  is  the  history  of  a  failure  ;  but  the  woman  who 
failed  said  that  it  might  be  an  instructive  tale  to  put 
into  print  for  the  benefit  of  the  younger  generation. 
The  younger  generation  does  not  want  instruction, 
being  perfectly  willing  to  instruct  if  any  one  will  lis¬ 
ten  to  it.  None  the  less,  here  begins  the  story  where 
every  right-minded  story  should  begin,  that  is  to  say  at 
Simla,  where  all  things  begin  and  many  come  to  an 
evil  end. 

The  mistake  was  due  to  a  very  clever  woman  making 
a  blunder  and  not  retrieving  it.  Men  are  licensed  to 
stumble,  but  a  clever  woman’s  mistake  is  outside  the 
regular  course  of  Nature  and  Providence  ;  since  all  good 
people  know  that  a  woman  is  the  only  infallible  thing 
in  this  world,  except  Government  Paper  of  the  ’79 
issue,  bearing  interest  at  four  and  a  half  per  cent.  Yet, 
we  have  to  remember  that  six  consecutive  days  of 
rehearsing  the  leading  part  of  The  Fallen  Angel ,  at 
the  New  Gaiety  Theatre  where  the  plaster  is  not  yet 
properly  dry,  might  have  brought  about  an  unhinge- 

i 


B 


2 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


ment  of  spirits  which,  again,  might  have  led  to  eccem 
tricities. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  came  to  ‘The  Foundry  ’  to  tiffin  with 
Mrs.  Mallowe,  her  one  bosom  friend,  for  she  was  in  no 
sense  ‘  a  woman’s  woman.’  And  it  was  a  woman’s  tiffin, 
the  door  shut  to  all  the  world ;  and  they  both  talked 
chiffons ,  which  is  French  for  Mysteries. 

‘  I’ve  enjoyed  an  interval  of  sanity,’  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
announced,  after  tiffin  was  over  and  the  two  were  com¬ 
fortably  settled  in  the  little  writing-room  that  opened 
out  of  Mrs.  Mallowe’s  bedroom. 

‘  My  dear  girl,  what  has  he  done  ?  ’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe 
sweetly.  It  is  noticeable  that  ladies  of  a  certain  age 
call  each  other  ‘  dear  girl,’  just  as  commissioners  of 
twenty-eight  years’  standing  address  their  equals  in  the 
Civil  List  as  ‘my  boy.’ 

‘  There’s  no  he  in  the  case.  Who  am  I  that  an  imag¬ 
inary  man  should  be  always  credited  to  me  ?  Am  I  an 
Apache  ?  ’ 

‘No,  dear,  but  somebody’s  scalp  is  generally  drying 
at  your  wigwam-door.  Soaking,  rather.’ 

This  was  an  allusion  to  the  Hawley  Boy,  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  riding  all  across  Simla  in  the  Rains,  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  That  lady  laughed. 

‘For  my  sins,  the  Aide  at  Tyrconnel  last  night  told 
me  off  to  The  Mussuck.  Hsh  !  Don’t  laugh.  One  of 
my  most  devoted  admirers.  When  the  duff  came  — 
some  one  really  ought  to  teach  them  to  make  puddings 
at  Tyrconnel  —  The  Mussuck  was  at  liberty  to  attend 
to  me.’ 

‘Sweet  soul!  I  know  his  appetite,’  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
lowe.  ‘  Did  he,  oh  did  he,  begin  his  wooing  ?  ’ 

‘  By  a  special  mercy  of  Providence,  no.  He  explained 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE 


3 


his  importance  as  a  Pillar  of  the  Empire.  I  didn’t 
laugh.’ 

4  Lucy,  I  don’t  believe  you.’ 

4  Ask  Captain  Sangar  ;  he  was  on  the  other  side. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  The  Mussuck  dilated.’ 

4 1  think  I  can  see  him  doing  it,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe 
pensively,  scratching  her  fox-terrier’s  ears. 

4 1  was  properly  impressed.  Most  properly.  I 
yawned  openly.  44  Strict  supervision,  and  play  them 
off  one  against  the  other,”  said  The  Mussuck,  shovel¬ 
ling  down  his  ice  by  tureenfuls,  I  assure  you.  44  That, 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  is  the  secret  of  our  Government.”’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  laughed  long  and  merrily.  4  And 
what  did  you  say  ?  ’ 

4  Did  you  ever  know  me  at  loss  for  an  answer  yet  ? 
I  said:  44  So  I  have  observed  in  my  dealings  with  you.” 
The  Mussuck  swelled  with  pride.  He  is  coming  to 
call  on  me  to-morrow.  The  Hawley  Boy  is  coming 
too.’ 

4  44  Strict  supervision  and  play  them  off  one  against 
the  other.  That,  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  is  the  secret  of  our 
Government.”  And  I  daresay  if  we  could  get  to  The 
Mussuck’s  heart,  we  should  find  that  he  considers  him¬ 
self  a  man  of  the  world.’ 

4  As  he  is  of  the  other  two  things.  I  like  The  Mus¬ 
suck,  and  I  won’t  have  you  call  him  names.  He  amuses 
me.’ 

4  He  has  reformed  you,  too,  by  what  appears. 
Explain  the  interval  of  sanity,  and  hit  Tim  on  the  nose 
with  the  paper-cutter,  please.  That  dog  is  too  fond  of 
sugar.  Do  you  take  milk  in  yours  ?  ’ 

4  No,  thanks.  Polly,  I’m  wearied  of  this  life.  It’s 
hollow.’ 


4 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4  Turn  religious,  then.  I  always  said  that  Rome 
would  he  your  fate.’ 

4  Only  exchanging  half  a  dozen  attaches  in  red  for 
one  in  black,  and  if  I  fasted,  the  wrinkles  would  come, 
and  never,  never  go.  Has  it  ever  struck  you,  dear, 
that  I’m  getting  old  ?  ’ 

4  Thanks  for  your  courtesy.  I’ll  return  it.  Ye-es, 
we  are  both  not  exactly  —  how  shall  I  put  it?  ’ 

4  What  we  have  been.  44 1  feel  it  in  my  bones,”  as 
Mrs.  Crossley  says.  Polly,  I’ve  wasted  my  life.’ 

4  As  how  ?  ’ 

‘Never  mind  how.  I  feel  it.  I  want  to  be  a  Power 
before  I  die.’ 

4  Be  a  Power  then.  You’ve  wits  enough  for  any¬ 
thing  —  and  beauty  ?  ’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  pointed  a  teaspoon  straight  at  her 
hostess.  4  Polly,  if  you  heap  compliments  on  me  like 
this,  I  shall  cease  to  believe  that  you’re  a  woman.  Tell 
me  how  I  am  to  be  a  Power.’ 

4  Inform  The  Mussuck  that  he  is  the  most  fascinating 
and  slimmest  man  in  Asia,  and  he’ll  tell  you  anything 
and  everything  you  please.’ 

4  Bother  The  Mussuck!  I  mean  an  intellectual  Power 
—  not  a  gas-power.  Polly,  I’m  going  to  start  a  salon.’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  turned  lazily  on  the  sofa  and  rested 
her  head  on  her  hand.  4  Hear  the  words  of  the  Preacher, 
the  son  of  Baruch,’  she  said. 

4  Will  you  talk  sensibly  ?  ’ 

4 1  will,  dear,  for  I  see  that  you  are  going  to  make  a 
mistake.’ 

.4I  never  made  a  mistake  in  my  life — at  least,  never 
one  that  I  couldn’t  explain  away  afterwards.’ 

4  Going  to  make  a  mistake,’  went  on  Mrs.  Mallow© 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  5 

composedly.  4  It  is  impossible  to  start  a  salon  in  Simla. 
A  bar  would  be  much  more  to  the  point.’ 

*  Perhaps,  but  why  ?  It  seems  so  easy.’ 

4  Just  what  makes  it  so  difficult  How  many  clever 
women  are  there  in  Simla  ?  ’ 

4  Myself  and  yourself,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  without  a 
moment’s  hesitation. 

4  Modest  woman  !  Mrs.  Feardon  would  thank  you 
for  that.  And  how  many  clever  men  ?  ’ 

4  Oh  —  er  —  hundreds,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  vaguely. 

4 What  a  fatal  blunder!  Not  one.  They  are  all 
bespoke  by  the  Government.  Take  my  husband,  for 
instance.  Jack  was  a  clever  man,  though  I  say  so  who 
shouldn’t.  Government  has  eaten  him  up.  All  his 
ideas  and  powers  of  conversation  —  he  really  used  to  be 
a  good  talker,  even  to  his  wife,  in  the  old  days  —  are 
taken  from  him  by  this  —  this  kitchen-sink  of  a  Gov¬ 
ernment.  That’s  the  case  with  every  man  up  here  who 
is  at  work.  I  don’t  suppose  a  Russian  convict  under 
the  knout  is  able  to  amuse  the  rest  of  his  gang;  and 
all  our  men-folk  here  are  gilded  convicts.’ 

4  But  there  are  scores - ’ 

4 1  know  what  you’re  going  to  say.  Scores  of  idle 
men  up  on  leave.  I  admit  it,  but  they  are  all  of  two 
objectionable  sets.  The  Civilian  who’d  be  delightful 
if  he  had  the  military  man’s  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  style,  and  the  military  man  who’d  be  adorable  if 
he  had  the  Civilian’s  culture.’ 

4  Detestable  word  !  Have  Civilians  culchaw  ?  I 
never  studied  the  breed  deeply.’ 

4  Don’t  make  fun  of  Jack’s  service.  Yes.  They’re 
like  the  teapoys  in  the  Lakka  Bazar  —  good  material 
but  not  polished.  They  can’t  help  themselves,  poor 


6 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


dears.  A  Civilian  only  begins  to  be  tolerable  after  he 
has  knocked  about  the  world  for  fifteen  years.’ 

4  And  a  military  man  ?  ’ 

4  When  he  has  had  the  same  amount  of  service.  The 
young  of  both  species  are  horrible.  You  would  have 
scores  of  them  in  your  salo7id 

4 1  would  not /’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  fiercely.  4 1 
would  tell  the  bearer  to  darwaza  band  them.  I’d  put 
their  own  colonels  and  commissioners  at  the  door  to 
turn  them  away.  I’d  give  them  to  the  Topsham  girl 
to  play  with.’ 

4  The  Topsham  girl  would  be  grateful  for  the  gift. 
But  to  go  back  to  .the  salon.  Allowing  that  you  had 
gathered  all  your  men  and  women  together,  what  would 
you  do  with  them  ?  Make  them  talk  ?  They  would  all 
with  one  accord  begin  to  flirt.  Your  salon  would  be¬ 
come  a  glorified  Peliti’s  —  a  44 Scandal  Point”  by  lamp¬ 
light.  ’ 

4  There’s  a  certain  amount  of  wisdom  in  that  view.’ 

4  There’s  all  the  wisdom  in  the  world  in  it.  Surely, 
twelve  Simla  seasons  ought  to  have  taught  you  that 
you  can’t  focus  anything  in  India  ;  and  a  salon,  to  be 
any  good  at  all,  must  be  permanent.  In  two  seasons 
your  roomful  would  be  scattered  all  over  Asia.  We 
are  only  little  bits  of  dirt  on  the  hillsides  —  here  one 
day  and  blown  down  the  khud  the  next.  We  have  lost 
the  art  of  talking  —  at  least  our  men  have.  We  have 
no  cohesion - ’ 

4  George  Eliot  in  the  flesh,  ’  interpolated  Mrs.  Hauks¬ 
bee  wickedly. 

4  And  collectively,  my  dear  scoffer,  we,  men  and 
women  alike,  have  7io  influence.  Come  into  the  veranda 
and  look  at  the  Mall !  ’ 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  VEERE 


11 


last  ten  nights,  and  rehearsing  in  the  afternoon.  You’d 
be  tired  yourself.  It’s  only  because  I’m  tired.’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  did  not  offer  Mrs.  Hauksbee  any  pity 
or  ask  her  to  lie  down,  but  gave  her  another  cup  of 
tea,  and  went  on  with  the  talk. 

4  I’ve  been  through  that  too,  dear,’  she  said. 

4 1  remember,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  a  gleam  of  fun 
on  her  face.  4 In  ’84,  wasn’t  it?  You  went  out  a 
great  deal  less  next  season.’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  smiled  in  a  superior  and  Sphinx-like 
fashion. 

4 1  became  an  Influence,’  said  she. 

4  Good  gracious,  child,  you  didn’t  join  the  Theoso- 
phists  and  kiss  Buddha’s  big  toe,  did  you  ?  I  tried  to 
get  into  their  set  once,  but  they  cast  me  out  for  a 
sceptic  —  without  a  chance  of  improving  my  poor  little 
mind,  too.’ 

4  No,  I  didn’t  Theosophilander.  Jack  says — —  ’ 

‘Never  mind  Jack.  What  a  husband  says  is  known 
before.  What  did  you  do?  ' 

4 1  made  a  lasting  impression.’ 

4  So  have  I —-for  four  months.  But  that  didn’t 
console  me  in  the  least.  I  hated  the  man.  Will  you 
stop  smiling  in  that  inscrutable  way  and  tell  me  what 
you  mean  ?  ’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  told. 

********* 

4  And  - — you  —  mean-—  to  —  say  that  it  is  absolutely 
Platonic  on  both  sides  ?  ’ 

‘Absolutely,  or  I  should  never  have  taken  it  up.’ 

4  And  his  last  promotion  was  due  to  you  ?  * 

Mrs.  Mallowe  nodded. 

‘And  you  warned  him  against  the  Topsham  girl?’ 


12 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Another  nod. 

4  And  told  him  of  Sir  Dugald  Delane’s  private  memo 
about  him  ?  ’ 

A  third  nod. 

4  Why  f  ’ 

4  What  a  question  to  ask  a  woman !  Because  it 
amused  me  at  first.  I  am  proud  of  my  property  now. 
If  I  live,  he  shall  continue  to  be  successful.  Yes,  I 
will  put  him  upon  the  straight  road  to  Knighthood, 
and  everything  else  that  a  man  values.  The  rest 
depends  upon  himself.’ 

4  Polly,  you  are  a  most  extraordinary  woman.’ 

4  Not  in  the  least.  I’m  concentrated,  that’s  all. 
You  diffuse  yourself,  dear;  and  though  all  Simla 
knows  your  skill  in  managing  a  team— — ’ 

4  Can’t  you  choose  a  prettier  word?  ’ 

4  Team ,  of  half  a  dozen,  from  The  Mussuck  to  the 
Hawley  Boy,  you  gain  nothing  by  it.  Not  even  amuse¬ 
ment.’ 

4  And  you  ?  ’ 

4  Try  my  recipe.  Take  a  man,  not  a  boy,  mind,  but 
an  almost  mature,  unattached  man,  and  be  his  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend.  You'll  find  it  the  most  in¬ 
teresting  occupation  that  you  ever  embarked  on..  It 
can  be  done  —  you  needn’t  look  like  that  —  because 
I’ve  done  it.’ 

4  There’s  an  element  of  risk  about  it  that  makes  the 
notion  attractive.  I'll  get  such  a  man  and  say  to  him, 
44  Now,  understand  that  there  must  be  no  flirtation.  Do 
exactly  what  I  tell  you,  profit  by  my  instruction  and 
counsels,  and  all  will  yet  be  well.”  Is  that  the  idea?’ 

4  More  or  less,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  with  an  unfathom¬ 
able  smile.  4  But  be  sure  he  understands.’ 


II 


Dribble-dribble  —  trickle-trickle  — 

What  a  lot  of  raw  dust ! 

My  dollie’s  had  an  accident 
And  out  came  all  the  sawdust ! 

Nursery  Rh?/77ie. 

So  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  in  ‘The  Foundry  ’  which  over 
looks  Simla  Mall,  sat  at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Mallowe  and 
gathered  wisdom.  The  end  of  the  Conference  was 
the  Great  Idea  upon  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee  so  plumed 
herself. 

‘  I  warn  you,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  beginning  to  repent 
of  her  suggestion,  ‘that  the  matter  is  not  half  so  easy 
as  it  looks.  Any  woman  —  even  the  Topsham  girl—, 
can  catch  a  man,  but  very,  very  few  know  how  to 
manage  him  when  caught.’ 

‘  My  child,’  was  the  answer,  ‘  I’ve  been  a  female  St. 
Simon  Stylites  looking  down  upon  men  for  these — ■ 
these  years  past.  Ask  The  Mussuck  whether  I  can 
manage  them.’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  departed  humming,  ‘  Til  go  to  him- 
and  my  to  him  in  manner  most  ironical .’  Mrs.  Mallowe 
laughed  to  herself.  Then  she  grew  suddenly  sober. 
‘I  wonder  whether  I’ve  done  well  in  advising  that 
amusement?  Lucy’s  a  clever  woman,  but  a  thought 
too  careless.’ 

A  week  later,  the  two  met  at  a  Monday  Pop. 
‘Well?’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

13 


14 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘I’ve  caught  him!’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee;  her  eyes 
were  dancing  with  merriment. 

‘Who  is  it,  mad  woman?  I’m  sorry  I  ever  spoke 
to  you  about  it.’ 

‘  Look  between  the  pillars.  In  the  third  row ;  fourth 
from  the  end.  You  can  see  his  face  now.  Look!  ’ 

‘OtisYeere!  Of  all  the  improbable  and  impossible 
people!  I  don’t  believe  you.’ 

‘Hsh!  Wait  till  Mrs.  Tarkass  begins  murdering 
Milton  Wellings;  and  I’ll  tell  you  all  about  it.  S-s-ss! 
That  woman’s  voice  always  reminds  me  of  an  Under¬ 
ground  train  coming  into  Earl’s  Court  with  the  brakes 
on.  Now  listen.  It  is  really  Otis  Yeere.’ 

‘  So  I  see,  but  does  it  follow  that  he  is  your  property!  ’ 

‘  He  Js  /  By  right  of  trove.  I  found  him,  lonely 
and  unbefriended,  the  very  next  night  after  our  talk, 
at  the  Dugald  Delane’s  burra-khana.  I  liked  his  eyes, 
and  I  talked  to  him.  Next  day  he  called.  Next  day 
we  went  for  a  ride  together,  and  to-day  lie’s  tied  to 
my  Wicksliaw- wheels  hand  and  foot.  You’ll  see  when 
the  concert’s  over.  He  doesn’t  know  I’m  here  yet.’ 

‘  Thank  goodness  you  haven’t  chosen  a  boy.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  him,  assuming  that  you’ve 
got  him  ?  ’ 

‘  Assuming,  indeed!  Does  a  woman  —  do  I — ever 
make  a  mistake  in  that  sort  of  thing?  First’  —  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  Ticked  off  the  items  ostentatiously  on  her 
little  gloved  fingers  —  ‘First,  my  dear,  I  shall  dress 
him  properly.  At  present  his  raiment  is  a  disgrace, 
and  he  wears  a  dress-shirt  like  a  crumpled  sheet  of 
the  Pioneer.  Secondly,  after  I  have  made  him  present¬ 
able,  I  shall  form  his  manners  —  his  morals  are  above 
reproach.’ 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE 


15 


‘You  seem  to  have  discovered  a  great  deal  about  him 
considering  the  shortness  of  your  acquaintance.’ 

‘Surely  you  ought  to  know  that  the  first  proof  a 
man  gives  of  his  interest  in  a  woman  is  by  talking  to 
her  about  his  own  sweet  self.  If  the  woman  listens 
without  yawning,  he  begins  to  like  her.  If  she  flatters 
the  animal’s  vanity,  he  ends  by  adoring  her.’ 

‘  In  some  cases.’ 

‘Never  mind  the  exceptions.  I  know  which  one 
you  are  thinking  of.  Thirdly,  and  lastly,  after  he  is 
polished  and  made  pretty,  I  shall,  as  you  said,  be  his 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  and  he  shall  become  a 
success  —  as  great  a  success  as  your  friend.  I  always 
wondered  how  that  man  got  on.  Did  The  Mussuck 
come  to  you  with  the  Civil  List  and,  dropping  on  one 
knee  —  no,  two  knees,  a  la  Gibbon  —  hand  it  to  you 
and  say,  “Adorable  angel,  choose  your  friend’s  appoint¬ 
ment  ”  ?  ’ 

‘  Lucy,  your  long  experiences  of  the  Military  Depart¬ 
ment  have  demoralised  you.  One  doesn’t  do  that  sort 
of  thing  on  the  Civil  Side.’ 

‘No  disrespect  meant  to  Jack’s  Service,  my  dear. 
I  only  asked  for  information.  Give  me  three  months, 
and  see  what  changes  I  shall  work  in  my  prey.’ 

‘  Go  your  own  way  since  you  must.  But  I’m  sorry 
that  I  was  weak  enough  to  suggest  the  amusement.’ 

‘  “  I  am  all  discretion,  and  may  be  trusted  to  an  in- 
fin-ite  extent,”  ’  quoted  Mrs.  Hauksbee  from  The  Fallen 
Angel ;  and  the  conversation  ceased  with  Mrs.  Tar- 
kass’s  last,  long-drawn  war-whoop. 

Her  bitterest  enemies  —  and  she  had  many  —  could 
hardly  accuse  Mrs.  Hauksbee  of  wasting  her  time. 
Otis  Yeere  was  one  of  those  wandering  ‘  dumb  ’  charao* 


i 


16 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


ters,  foredoomed  through  life  to  be  nobody’s  property 
Ten  years  in  Her  Majesty’s  Bengal  Civil  Service,  spent, 
for  the  most  part,  in  undesirable  Districts,  had  given 
him  little  to  be  proud  of,  and  nothing  to  bring  confi 
dence.  Old  enough  to  have  lost  the  first  fine  careless 
rapture  that  showers  on  the  immature  ’Stunt  imaginary 
Commissionerships  and  Stars,  and  sends  him  into  the 
collar  with  coltish  earnestness  and  abandon;  too  young 
to  be  yet  able  to  look  back  upon  the  progress  he  had 
made,  and  thank  Providence  that  under  the  conditions 
of  the  day  he  had  come  even  so  far,  he  stood  upon  the 
dead-centre  of  his  career.  And  when  a  man  stands 
still,  he  feels  the  slightest  impulse  from  without. 
Fortune  had  ruled  that  Otis  Yeere  should  be,  for  the 
first  part  of  his  service,  one  of  the  rank  and  file  who 
are  ground  up  in  the  wheels  of  the  Administration; 
losing  heart  and  soul,  and  mind  and  strength,  in  the 
process.  Until  steam  replaces  manual  power  in  the 
working  of  the  Empire,  there  must  always  be  this  per¬ 
centage  —  must  always  be  the  men  who  are  used  up, 
expended,  in  the  mere  mechanical  routine.  For  these 
promotion  is  far  off  and  the  mill-grind  of  every  day 
very  instant.  The  Secretariats  know  them  only  by 
name;  they  are  not  the  picked  men  of  the  Districts 
with  Divisions  and  Collectorates  awaiting  them.  They 
are  simply  the  rank  and  file  —  the  food  for  fever — • 
sharing  with  the  ryot  and  the  plough-bullock  the  honour 
of  being  the  plinth  on  which  the  State  rests.  The 
older  ones  have  lost  their  aspirations;  the  younger  are 
putting  theirs  aside  with  a  sigh.  Both  learn  to  endure 
patiently  until  the  end  of  the  day.  Twelve  years  in 
the  rank  and  file,  men  say,  will  sap  the  hearts  of  the 
bravest  and  dull  the  wits  of  the  most  keen. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  yj 

Out  of  this  life  Otis  Yeere  had  fled  for  a  few  months; 
drifting*,  in  the  hope  of  a  little  masculine  society,  into 
Simla.  When  his  leave  was  over  he  would  return  to 
his  swampy,  sour-green,  under-manned  Bengal  district; 
to  tlie  native  Assistant,  the  native  Doctor,  the  native 
Magistrate,  the  steaming,  sweltering  Station,  the  ill- 
kempt  City,  and  the  undisguised  insolence  of  the 
Municipality  that  babbled  away  the  lives  of  men.  Life 
was  cheap,  however.  The  soil  spawned  humanity,  as 
it  bied  fiogs  in  the  Rains,  and  the  gap  of  the  sickness 
of  one  season  was  filled  to  overflowing  by  the  fecundity 
of  the  next.  Otis  was  unfeignedly  thankful  to  lay 
down  his  work  for  a  little  while  and  escape  from  the 
seething,  whining,  weakly  hive,  impotent  to  help  itself, 
but  strong  in  its  power  to  cripple,  thwart,  and  annoy 
the  sunken-eyed  man  who,  by  official  irony,  was  said 
to  be  4  in  charge  ’  of  it. 

********* 

4 1  knew  there  were  women-dowdies  in  Bengal.  They 
come  up  here  sometimes.  But  I  didn’t  know  that  there 
were  men-dowds,  too.’ 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  Otis  Yeere 
that  his  clothes  wore  the  mark  of  the  ages.  It  will  be 
seen  that  his  friendship  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  made 
great  strides. 

As  that  lad}^  truthfully  says,  a  man  is  never  so  happy 
as  when  he  is  talking  about  himself.  From  Otis  Yeere’s 
lips  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  before  long,  learned  everything 
that  she  wished  to  know  about  the  subject  of  her 
experiment:  learned  what  manner  of  life  he  had  led  in 
what  she  vaguely  called  4  those  awful  cholera  districts’ ; 
learned,  too,  but  this  knowledge  came  later,  what  man¬ 
ner  of  life  he  had  purposed  to  lead  and  what  dreams  he 


18 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


had  dreamed  in  the  year  of  grace  ’77,  before  the  reality 
had  knocked  the  heart  out  of  him.  Very  pleasant  are 
the  shady  bridle-paths  round  Prospect  Hill  for  the  tell¬ 
ing  of  such  confidences. 

‘Not  yet,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  Mrs.  Mallowe. 
4  Not  yet.  I  must  wait  until  the  man  is  properly 
dressed,  at  least.  Great  Heavens,  is  it  possible  that 
he  doesn’t  know  what  an  honour  it  is  to  be  taken  up 
by  Me  !  ’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  did  not  reckon  false  modesty  as  one 
of  her  failings. 

‘Always  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee!’  murmured  Mrs.  Mal¬ 
lowe,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  to  Otis.  ‘  Oh  you  men, 
you  men!  Here  are  our  Punjabis  growling  because 
you’ve  monopolised  the  nicest  woman  in  Simla. 
They’ll  tear  you  to  pieces  on  the  Mall,  some  day, 
Mr.  Yeere.’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  rattled  down-hill,  having  satisfied  her¬ 
self,  by  a  glance  through  the  fringe  of  her  sunshade,  of 
the  effect  of  her  words. 

The  shot  went  home.  Of  a  surety  Otis  Yeere  was 
somebody  in  this  bewildering  whirl  of  Simla  —  had 
monopolised  the  nicest  woman  in  it  and  the  Punjabis 
were  growling.  The  notion  justified  a  mild  glow  of 
vanity.  He  had  never  looked  upon  his  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  as  a  matter  for  general  interest. 

The  knowledge  of  envy  was  a  pleasant  feeling  to  the 
man  of  no  account.  It  was  intensified  later  in  the  day 
when  a  luncher  at  the  Club  said  spitefully,  ‘  W ell,  for 
a  debilitated  Ditcher,  Yeere,  you  are  going  it.  Hasn’t 
any  kind  friend  told  you  that  she’s  the  most  dangerous 
woman  in  Simla  ?  ’ 

Yeere  chuckled  and  passed  out.  When,  oh  when, 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE 


19 


would  liis  new  clothes  be  ready  ?  He  descended  into 
the  Mall  to  inquire  ;  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  coining  over 
the  Church  Ridge  in  her  ’ rickshaw ,  looked  down  upon 
him  approvingly.  4  He’s  learning  to  carry  himself  as 
if  he  were  a  man,  instead  of  a  piece  of  furniture,  —  and,’ 
she  screwed  up  her  eyes  to  see  the  better  through  the 
sunlight — 4  he  is  a  man  when  he  holds  himself  like  that. 
Oh  blessed  Conceit,  what  should  we  be  without  you  ?  ’ 

With  the  new  clothes  came  a  new  stock  of  self-confi¬ 
dence.  Otis  Yeere  discovered  that  he  could  enter  a 
room  without  breaking  into  a  gentle  perspiration — - 
could  cross  one,  even  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  as 
though  rooms  were  meant  to  be  crossed.  He  was  for 
the  first  time  in  nine  years  proud  of  himself,  and  con¬ 
tented  with  his  life,  satisfied  with  his  new  clothes,  and 
rejoicing  in  the  friendship  of  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

4  Conceit  is  what  the  poor  fellow  wants,’  she  said  in 
confidence  to  Mrs.  Mallowe.  4 1  believe  they  must  use 
Civilians  to  plough  the  fields  with  in  Lower  Bengal. 
You  see  I  have  to  begin  from  the  very  beginning  — 
haven’t  I  ?  But  you’ll  admit,  won’t  you,  dear,  that  he 
is  immensely  improved  since  I  took  him  in  hand.  Only 
give  me  a  little  more  time  and  he  won’t  know  himself.’ 

Indeed,  Yeere  was  rapidly  beginning  to  forget  what 
he  had  been.  One  of  his  own  rank  and  file  put  the 
matter  brutally  when  he  asked  Yeere,  in  reference  to 
nothing,  4  And  who  has  been  making  you  a  Member  of 
Council,  lately?  You  carry  the  side  of  half  a  dozen 
of  ’em.’ 

4 1  —  I’m  awf’ly  sorry.  I  didn’t  mean  it,  you  know, 
said  Yeere  apologetically. 

4  There’ll  be  no  holding  you,’  continued  the  old  stager 
grimly.  4  Climb  down,  Otis  —  climb  down,  and  get  all 


20 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


that  beastly  affectation  knocked  out  of  you  with  fever  \. 
Three  thousand  a  month  wouldn’t  support  it,’ 

Yeere  repeated  the  incident  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  He 
had  come  to  look  upon  her  as  his  Mother  Confessor. 

4  And  you  apologised  !  ’  she  said.  4  Oh,  shame  !  I 
hate  a  man  who  apologises.  Never  apologise  for  what 
your  friend  called  “side.”  Never!  It’s  a  man’s  busi¬ 
ness  to  be  insolent  and  overbearing  until  he  meets  with 
a  stronger.  Now,  you  bad  boy,  listen  to  me.’ 

Simply  and  straightforwardly,  as  the  '’rickshaw  loitered 
round  Jakko,  Mrs.  Hauksbee  preached  to  Otis  Yeere 
the  Great  Gospel  of  Conceit,  illustrating  it  with  living 
pictures  encountered  during  their  Sunday  afternoon 
stroll. 

4  Good  gracious  !  ’  she  ended  with  the  personal  argu¬ 
ment,  4  you’ll  apologise  next  for  being  my  attache?  ’ 

‘Never!’  said  Otis  Yeere.  ‘That’s  another  thing 
altogether.  I  shall  always  be - ’ 

4 Wliat’s  coining?’  thought  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

4  Proud  of  that,’  said  Otis. 

4  Safe  for  the  present,’  she  said  to  herself. 

4  But  I’m  afraid  I  have  grown  conceited.  Like  Jeshu- 
run,  you  know.  When  he  waxed'  fat,  then  he  kicked. 
It’s  the  having  no  worry  on  one’s  mind  and  the  Hill 
air,  I  suppose.’ 

4  Hill  air,  indeed !  ’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  herself. 
4  He’d  have  been  hiding  in  the  Club  till  the  last  day  of 
his  leave,  if  I  hadn’t  discovered  him.’  And  aloud  — 

4  Why  shouldn’t  you  be?  You  have  every. right  to.’ 

4 1 !  Why?’ 

4  Oh,  hundreds  of  things.  I’m  not  going  to  waste 
this  lovely  afternoon  by  explaining  ;  but  I  know  you 
have.  What  was  that  heap  of  manuscript  you  showed 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  21 

me  about  the  grammar  of  the  aboriginal  —  what’s  their 
names  ? 9 

4  G-ulIals.  A  piece  of  nonsense.  I’ve  far  too  much 
work  to  do  to  bother  oyer  Crullals  now.  You  should 
see  my  District.  Come  down  with  your  husband  some 
day  and  I’ll  show  you  round.  Such  a  lovely  place  in 
the  Rains  !  A  sheet  of  water  with  the  railway-embank¬ 
ment  and  the  snakes  sticking  out,  and,  in  the  summer, 
green  flies  and  green  squash.  The  people  would  die  of 
fear  if  you  shook  a  dogwhip  at  ’em.  But  they  know 
you’re  forbidden  to  do  that,  so  they  conspire  to  make 
your  life  a  burden  to  you.  My  District’s  worked  by 
some  man  at  Darjiling,  on  the  strength  of  a  native 
pleader’s  false  reports.  Oh,  it’s  a  heavenly  place  !  ’ 

Otis  Yeere  laughed  bitterly. 

4  There’s  not  the  least  necessity  that  you  should  stay 
in  it.  Why  do  you  ?  ’ 

4 Because  I  must.  How’m  I  to  get  out  of  it?’ 

4  Row !  In  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways.  If  there 
weren’t  so  many  people  on  the  road,  I’d  like  to  box 
your  ears.  Ask,  my  dear  boy,  ask !  Look !  There 
is  young  Hexarly  with  six  years’  service  and  half  your 
talents.  He  asked  for  what  he  wanted,  and  he  got  it. 
See,  down  by  the  Convent !  There’s  McArthurson  who 
has  come  to  his  present  position  by  asking  —  sheer, 
downright  asking  —  after  he  had  pushed  himself  out  of 
the  rank  and  file.  One  man  is  as  good  as  another  in 
your  service  —  believe  me.  I’ve  seen  Simla  for  more 
seasons  than  1  care  to  think  about.  Do  you  suppose 
men  are  chosen  for  appointments  because  of  their  spe¬ 
cial  fitness  beforehand  ?  You  have  all  passed  a  high 
test  —  what  do  you  call  it?  —  in  the  beginning,  and, 
except  for  the  fevv  who  have  gone  altogether  to  the 


22 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


bad,  you  can  all  work  hard.  Asking  does  the  rest. 
Call  it  cheek,  call  it  insolence,  call  it  anything  you 
like,  but  ask !  Men  argue  —  yes,  I  know  what  men 
say  —  that  a  man,  by  the  mere  audacity  of  his  request, 
must  have  some  good  in  him.  A  weak  man  doesn’t 
say:  “Give  me  this  and  that.”  He  whines:  44 Why 
haven’t  I  been  given  this  and  that?”  If  you  were  in 
the  Army,  I  should  say  learn  to  spin  plates  or  play  a 
tambourine  with  your  toes.  As  it  is  —  ask!  You 
belong  to  a  Service  that  ought  to  be  able  to  command 
the  Channel  Fleet,  or  set  a  leg  at  twenty  minutes’ 
notice,  and  yet  you  hesitate  over  asking  to  escape  from 
a  squashy  green  district  where  you  admit  you  are 
not  master.  Drop  the  Bengal  Government  altogether. 
Even  Darjiling  is  a  little  out-of-the-way  hole.  I  was 
there  once,  and  the  rents  were  extortionate.  Assert 
yourself.  Get  the  Government  of  India  to  take  you 
over.  Try  to  get  on  the  Frontier,  where  every  man 
has  a  grand  chance  if  he  can  trust  himself.  Go  some¬ 
where  !  Do  something  !  You  have  twice  the  wits  and 
three  times  the  presence  of  the  men  up  here,  and,  and  ’ 

—  Mrs.  Hauksbee  paused  for  breath;  then  continued 

—  4  and  in  any  way  you  look  at  it,  you  ought  to.  You 
who  could  go  so  far !  ’ 

4 1  don’t  know,’  said  Yeere,  rather  taken  aback  by 
the  unexpected  eloquence.  4 1  haven’t  such  a  good 
opinion  of  myself.’ 

It  was  not  strictly  Platonic,  but  it  was  Policy. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon  the  un¬ 
gloved  paw  that  rested  on  the  turned-backed  ’ rickshaw 
hood,  and,  looking  the  man  full  in  the  face,  said  ten¬ 
derly,  almost  too  tend  erly,  4 1  believe  in  you  if  you 
mistrust  yourself.  Is  that  enough,  my  friend  9  ’ 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE 


23 


4  It  is  enough,’  answered  Otis  very  solemnly. 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  redreaming  the  dreams 
that  he  had  dreamed  eight  years  ago,  hut  through  them 
all  ran,  as  sheet-lightning  through  golden  cloud,  the 
light  of  Mrs.  Hauksbee’s  violet  eyes. 

Curious  and  impenetrable  are  the  mazes  of  Simla 
life  —  the  only  existence  in  this  desolate  land  worth 
the  living.  Gradually  it  went  abroad  among  men  and 
women,  in  the  pauses  between  dance,  play,  and  Gym¬ 
khana,  that  Otis  Yeere,  the  man  with  the  newly-lit 
light  of  self-confidence  in  his  eyes,  had  4  done  some¬ 
thing  decent '  in  the  wilds  whence  he  came.  He  had 
brought  an  erring  Municipality  to  reason,  appropriated 
the  funds  on  his  own  responsibility,  and  saved  the  lives 
of  hundreds.  He  knew  more  about  the  Grullals  than 
any  living  man.  Had  a  vast  knowledge  of  the  aborig¬ 
inal  tribes ;  was,  in  spite  of  his  juniority,  the  greatest 
authority  on  the  aboriginal  Grullals.  No  one  quite 
knew  who  or  what  the  Grullals  were  till  The  Mussuck, 
who  had  been  calling  on  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  and  prided 
himself  upon  picking  people’s  brains,  explained  they 
were  a  tribe  of  ferocious  hillmen,  somewhere  near  Sik¬ 
kim,  whose  friendship  even  the  Great  Indian  Empire 
would  find  it  worth  her  while  to  secure.  Now  we 
know  that  Otis  Yeere  had  showed  Mrs.  Hauksbee  his 
MS.  notes  of  six  years’  standing  on  these  same  Grullals. 
He  had  told  her,  too,  how,  sick  and  shaken  with  the 
fever  their  negligence  had  bred,  crippled  by  the  loss  of 
his  pet  clerk,  and  savagely  angry  at  the  desolation  in 
his  charge,  he  had  once  damned  the  collective  eyes 
of  his  4  intelligent  local  board  ’  for  a  set  of  haramzadas. 
Which  act  of  4  brutal  and  tyrannous  oppression  ’  won 
him  a  Reprimand  Royal  from  the  Bengal  Government  ,* 


24 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


but  in  tlie  anecdote  as  amended  for  Northern  consump¬ 
tion  we  find  no  record  of  this.  Hence  we  are  forced 
to  conclude  that  Mrs.  Hauksbee  edited  his  reminis¬ 
cences  before  sowing  them  in  idle  ears,  ready,  as  she 
well  knew,  to  exaggerate  good  or  evil.  And  Otis 
Yeere  bore  himself  as  befitted  the  hero  of  many 
tales. 

‘You  can  talk  to  me  when  you  don’t  fall  into  a 
brown  study.  Talk  now,  and  talk  your  brightest  and 
best,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

Otis  needed  no  spur.  Look  to  a  man  who  has  the 
counsel  of  a  woman  of  or  above  the  world  to  back  him. 
So  long  as  he  keeps  his  head,  he  can  meet  both  sexes  on 
equal  ground  —  an  advantage  never  intended  by  Provi¬ 
dence,  who  fashioned  Man  on  one  day  and  Woman  on 
another,  in  sign  that  neither  should  know  more  than  a 
very  little  of  the  other’s  life.  Such  a  man  goes  far,  or, 
the  counsel  being  withdrawn,  collapses  suddenly  while 
his  world  seeks  the  reason, 

Generalled  by  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  who,  again,  had  all 
Mrs.  Mallowe’s  wisdom  at  her  disposal,  proud  of  him¬ 
self  and,  in  the  end,  believing  in  himself  because  he 
was  believed  in,  Otis  Yeere  stood  ready  for  any  fortune 
that  might  befall,  certain  that  it  would  be  good.  He 
would  fight  for  his  own  hand,  and  intended  that  this 
second  struggle  should  lead  to  better  issue  than  the 
first  helpless  surrender  of  the  bewildered  ’Stunt. 

What  might  have  happened,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
This  lamentable  thing  befell,  bred  directly  by  a  state¬ 
ment  of  Mrs.  Hauksbee  that  she  would  spend  the  next 
season  in  Darjiling, 

‘Are  you  certain  of  that?  ’  said  Otis  Yeere. 

‘  Quite.  We’re  writing  about  a  house  now.’ 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE 


25 


Otis  Yeere  4  stopped  dead,9  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee  put  it 
in  discussing  the  relapse  with  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

4  He  has  behaved,’  she  said  angrily,  ‘  just  like  Cap¬ 
tain  Kerrington’s  pony  — only  Otis  is  a  donkey  — at 
the  last  Gymkhana.  Planted  his  forefeet  and  refused 
to  go  on  another  step.  Polly,  my  man’s  going  to  dis¬ 
appoint  me.  What  shall  I  do  ?  ’ 

As  a  rule,  Mrs.  Mallowe  does  not  approve  of  staring, 
but  on  this  occasion  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  utmost. 

4  Y°u  have  managed  cleverly  so  far,’  she  said.  4  Speak 
to  him,  and  ask  him  what  he  means.’ 

‘I  will  —  at  to-night’s  dance.’ 

4  No — o,  not  at  a  dance,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  cautiously. 

4  Men  are  never  themselves  quite  at  dances.  Better 
wait  till  to-morrow  morning.’ 

4  Nonsense.  If  he’s  going  to  ’vert  in  this  insane  way, 
there  isn’t  a  day  to  lose.  Are  you  going  ?  No  ?  Then 
sit  up  for  me,  there’s  a  dear.  I  shan’t  stay  longer  than 
supper  under  any  circumstances.’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  waited  through  the  evening,  looking 
long  and  earnestly  into  the  fire,  and  sometimes  smiling 
to  herself. 

********* 

‘Oh!  oh!  oh!  The  man’s  an  idiot !  A  raving, 
positive  idiot !  I’m  sorry  I  ever  saw  him  !  ’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  burst  into  Mrs.  Mallowe’s  house,  at 
midnight,  almost  in  tears. 

4  What  in  the  world  has  happened?’  said  Mrs.  Mal¬ 
lowe,  but  her  eyes  showed  that  she  had  guessed  an 
answer. 

4  Happened  !  Everything  has  happened  !  He  was 
there.  I  went  to  him  and  said,  44  Now,  what  does  tins 
nonsense  mean  ?  ”  Don’t  laugh,  dear,  I  can’t  bear  it. 


26 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


But  you  know  what  I  mean  I  said.  Then  it  was  a 
square,  and  I  sat  it  out  with  him  and  wanted  an  ex¬ 
planation,  and  he  said  —  Oh  !  I  haven’t  patience  with 
such  idiots !  You  know  what  I  said  about  going  to 
Darjiling  next  year?  It  doesn’t  matter  to  me  where  1 
go.  I’d  have  changed  the  Station  and  lost  the  rent  to 
have  saved  this.  He  said,  in  so  many  words,  that  he 
wasn’t  going  to  try  to  work  up  any  more,  because  — 
because  he  would  be  shifted  into  a  province  away  from 
Darjiling,  and  his  own  District,  where  these  creatures 
are,  is  within  a  day’s  journey - ’ 

‘  Ah — hh  !  ’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  in  a  tone  of  one  who 
has  successfully  tracked  an  obscure  word  through  a 
Targe  dictionary. 

‘Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  mad — so  absurd? 
And  he  had  the  ball  at  his  feet.  He  had  only  to  kick 
it !  I  would  have  made  him  anything !  Anything  in 
the  wide  world.  He  could  have  gone  to  the  world’s 
end.  I  would  have  helped  him.  I  made  him,  didn’t 
I,  Polly?  Didn’t  I  create  that  man?  Doesn’t  he  owe 
everything  to  me  ?  And  to  reward  me,  just  when 
everything  was  nicely  arranged,  by  this  lunacy  that 
spoilt  everything  !  ’ 

‘  Y ery  few  men  understand  your  devotion  thor¬ 
oughly.’ 

4  Oh,  Polly,  don't  laugh  at  me  !  I  give  men  up  from 
this  hour.  I  could  have  killed  him  then  and  there. 
What  right  had  this  man  —  this  Thing  I  had  picked  out 
of  his  filthy  paddy-fields — to  make  love  to  me?  5 

4  He  did  that,  did  he  ?  ’ 

‘  He  did.  I  don’t  remember  half  he  said,  I  was  so 
angry.  Oh,  but  such  a  funny  thing  happened  !  I 
can’t  help  laughing  at  it  now,  though  I  felt  nearly 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEERE  27 

ready  to  cry  with  rage.  He  raved  and  I  stormed  — 
I’m  afraid  we  must  have  made  an  awful  noise  in  our 
kala  juggah.  Protect  my  character,  dear,  if  it’s  all 
over  Simla  by  to-morrow — and  then  he  bobbed  forward 
in  the  middle  of  this  insanity — I  firmly  believe  the 
man’s  demented —  and  kissed  me  !  ’  , 

‘Morals  above  reproach,’  purred  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

4  So  they  were  —  so  they  are !  It  was  the  most 
absurd  kiss.  I  don’t  believe  he’d  ever  kissed  a  woman 
in  his  life  before.  I  threw  my  head  back,  and  it  was 
a  sort  of  slidy,  pecking  dab,  just  on  the  end  of  the 
chin  —  here.’  Mrs.  Hauksbee  tapped  her  masculine 
little  chin  with  her  fan.  ‘  Then,  of  course,  I  was  furi¬ 
ously  angry,  and  told  him  that  he  was  no  gentleman, 
and  I  was  sorry  I’d  ever  met  him,  and  so  on.  He  was 
crushed  so  easily  that  I  couldn’t  be  very  angry.  Then 
I  came  away  straight  to  you.’ 

4  W as  this  before  or  after  supper  ?  ’ 

4  Oh  !  before  —  oceans  before.  Isn’t  it  perfectly  dis¬ 
gusting  ?  ’ 

4  Let  me  think.  I  withhold  judgment  till  to-morrow. 
Morning  brings  counsel.’ 

But  morning  brought  only  a  servant  with  a  dainty 
bouquet  of  Annandale  roses  for  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to 
wear  at  the  dance  at  Viceregal  Lodge  that  night. 

4  He  doesn’t  seem  to  be  very  penitent,’  said  Mrs. 
Mallowe.  4  What’s  the  billet-doux  in  the  centre  ?  ’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  opened  the  neatly-folded  note,  — 
another  accomplishment  that  she  had  taught  Otis,  — 
read  it,  and  groaned  tragically. 

4  Last  wreck  of  a  feeble  intellect !  Poetry  !  Is  it 
his  own,  do  you  think?  Oh,  that  I  ever  built  my 
hopes  on  such  a  maudlin  idiot !  ’ 


28 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘No.  It’s  a  quotation  from  Mrs.  Browning,  and, 
in  view  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  as  Jack  says,  uncom¬ 
monly  well  chosen.  Listen  — 

Sweet  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart, 

Pass !  There’s  a  world  full  of  men ; 

And  wf)men  as  fair  as  thou  art, 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware  — 

Malice  not  one  can  impute  ; 

And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there, 

In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman’s  foot  ?  * 

‘  I  didn’t  —  I  didn’t  —  I  didn’t !  ’  —  said  Mrs.  Hauks 
bee  angrily,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears;  ‘there  was  nq 
malice  at  all.  Oh,  it’s  too  vexatious!  ’ 

‘  You’ve  misunderstood  the  compliment,’  said  Mrs 
Mallowe.  ‘  He  clears  you  completely  and  —  ahem  — 
I  should  think  by  this,  that  he  has  cleared  completeh 
too.  My  experience  of  men  is  that  when  they  begin 
to  quote  poetry,  they  are  going  to  flit.  Like  swans 
singing  before  they  die,  you  know.’ 

‘  Polly,  you  take  my  sorrows  in  a  most  unfeeling 
way.’ 

‘  Do  I  ?  Is  it  so  terrible  ?  If  he’s  hurt  your  vanity, 
I  should  say  that  you’ve  done  a  certain  amount  of 
damage  to  his  heart.’ 

‘  Oh,  you  never  can  tell  abour  a  man  !  ’  said  Mrs 
Hauksbee. 


AT  THE  PIT’S  MOUTH 


Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tide  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it  he  knows  all, 

But  in  mine  ear  will  aye  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall, 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  me, 

That  in  the  dark  rang,  ‘  Enderby.’ 

Jean  Ingelow. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  Man  and  his  Wife 
and  a  Tertium  Quid. 

All  three  were  unwise,  hut  the  Wife  was  the  un- 
wisest.  The  Man  should  have  looked  after  his  Wife, 
who  should  have  avoided  the  Tertium  Quid,  who, 
again,  should  have  married  a  wife  of  his  own,  after 
clean  and  open  flirtations,  to  which  nobody  can  possi¬ 
bly  object,  round  Jakko  or  Observatory  Hill.  When 
you  see  a  young  man  with  his  pony  in  a  white  lather, 
and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  flying  down-hill 
at  fifteen  miles  an  hour  to  meet  a  girl  who  will  be 
properly  surprised  to  meet  him,  you  naturally  approve 
of  that  young  man,  and  wish  him  Staff  appointments, 
and  take  an  interest  in  his  welfare,  and,  as  the  proper 
time  comes,  give  them  sugar-tongs  or  side-saddles 
according  to  your  means  and  generosity. 

The  Tertium  Quid  flew  down-hill  on  horseback,  but 
it  was  to  meet  the  Man’s  Wife  ;  and  when  he  flew  up¬ 
hill  it  was  for  the  same  end.  The  Man  was  in  the 
Plains,  earning  money  for  his  Wife  to  spend  on  dresses 
and  four-hundred-rupee  bracelets,  and  inexpensive  lux- 

29 


30 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


uries  of  that  kind.  He  worked  very  hard,  and  Rent 
her  a  letter  or  a  post-card  daily.  She  also  wrote  to 
him  daily,  and  said  that  she  was  longing  for  him  to 
come  up  to  Simla.  The  Tertium  Quid  used  to  lean 
over  her  shoulder  and  laugh  as  she  wrote  the  notes. 
Then  the  two  would  ride  to  the  Post-office  together. 

Now,  Simla  is  a  strange  place  and  its  customs  are 
peculiar ;  nor  is  any  man  who  has  not  spent  at  least 
ten  seasons  there  qualified  to  pass  judgment  on  circum¬ 
stantial  evidence,  which  is  the  most  untrustworthy  in 
the  Courts.  For  these  reasons,  and  for  others  which 
need  not  appear,  I  decline  to  state  positively  whether 
there  was  anything  irretrievably  wrong  in  the  rela¬ 
tions  between  the  Man’s  Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid. 
If  there  was,  and  hereon  you  must  form  your  own 
opinion,  it  was  the  Man’s  Wife’s  fault.  She  was  kit¬ 
tenish  in  her  manners,  wearing  generally  an  air  of  soft 
and  fluffy  innocence.  But  she  was  deadlily  learned 
and  evil-instructed  ;  and,  now  and  again,  when  the 
mask  dropped,  men  saw  this,  shuddered  and  —  almost 
drew  back.  Men  are  occasionally  particular,  and  the 
least  particular  men  are  always  the  most  exacting. 

Simla  is  eccentric  in  its  fashion  of  treating  friend¬ 
ships.  Certain  attachments  which  have  set  and  crys¬ 
tallised  through  half  a  dozen  seasons  acquire  almost 
the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  bond,  and  are  revered  as 
such.  Again,  certain  attachments  equally  old,  and, 
to  all  appearance,  equally  venerable,  never  seem  to  win 
any  recognised  official  status ;  while  a  chance-sprung 
acquaintance,  not  two  months  born,  steps  into  the  place 
which  by  right  belongs  to  the  senior.  There  is  no  law 
reducible  to  print  which  regulates  these  affairs. 

Some  people  have  a  gift  which  secures  them  in- 


31 


AT  THE  PIT’ a  MOUTH 

finite  toleration,  and  others  have  not.  The  Man’s 
Wife  had  not.  If  she  looked  over  the  garden  wall, 
for  instance,  women  taxed  her  with  stealing  their  hus¬ 
bands.  She  complained  pathetically  that  she  was  not 
allowed  to  choose  her  own  friends.  When  she  put  up 
her  big  white  muff  to  her  lips,  and  gazed  over  it  and 
under  her  eyebrows  at  you  as  she  said  this  thing,  you 
felt  that  she  had  been  infamously  misjudged,  and  that 
all  the  other  women’s  instincts  were  all  wrong  ;  which 
was  absurd.  She  was  not  allowed  to  own  the  Tertium 
Quid  in  peace ;  and  was  so  strangely  constructed  that 
she  would  not  have  enjoyed  peace  has  she  been  so  per¬ 
mitted.  She  preferred  some  semblance  of  intrigue  to 
cloak  even  her  most  commonplace  actions. 

After  two  months  of  riding,  first  round  J akko,  then 
Elysium,  then  Summer  Hill,  then  Observatory  Hill, 
then  under  Jutogh,  and  lastly  up  and  down  the  Cart 
Road  as  far  as  the  Tara  Devi  gap  in  the  dusk,  she  said 
to  the  Tertium  Quid,  4  Frank,  people  say  we  are  too 
much  together,  and  people  are  so  horrid.’ 

The  Tertium  Quid  pulled  his  moustache,  and  replied 
that  horrid  people  were  unworthy  of  the  consideration 
of  nice  people. 

4  But  they  have  done  more  than  talk  —  they  have 
written  —  written  to  my  hubby  —  I’m  sure  of  it,’  said 
the  Man’s  Wife,  and  she  pulled  a  letter  from  her  hus¬ 
band  out  of  her  saddle-pocket  and  gave  it  to  the 
Tertium  Quid. 

It  was  an  honest  letter,  written  by  an  honest  man, 
then  stewing  in  the  Plains  on  two  hundred  rupees  a 
month  (for  he  allowed  his  wife  eight  hundred  and  fifty ), 
and  in  a  silk  banian  and  cotton  trousers.  It  is  said 
that,  uerhaps,  she  had  not  thought  of  the  unwisdom  of 


32 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


allowing  her  name  to  be  so  generally  coupled  with  the 
Tertium  Quid’s  ;  that  she  was  too  much  of  a  child  to 
understand  the  dangers  of  that  sort  of  thing ;  that  he, 
her  husband,  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  interfere 
jealously  with  her  little  amusements  and  interests,  but 
that  it  would  be  better  were  she  to  drop  the  Tertium 
Quid  quietly  and  for  her  husband’s  sake.  The  letter 
was  sweetened  with  many  pretty  little  pet  names,  and 
it  amused  the  Tertium  Quid  considerably.  He  and  She 
laughed  over  it,  so  that  you,  fifty  yards  away,  could  see 
their  shoulders  shaking  while  the  horses  slouched  along 
side  by  side. 

Their  conversation  was  not  worth  reporting.  The 
upshot  of  it  was  that,  next  day,  no  one  saw  the  Man’s 
Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid  together.  They  had  both 
gone  down  to  the  Cemetery,  which,  as  a  rule,  is  only 
visited  officially  by  the  inhabitants  of  Simla. 

A  Simla  funeral  with  the  clergyman  riding,  the 
mourners  riding,  and  the  coffin  creaking  as  it  swings 
between  the  bearers,  is  one  of  the  most  depressing 
things  on  this  earth,  particularly  when  the  procession 
passes  under  the  wet,  dank  dip  beneath  the  Rockcliffe 
Hotel,  where  the  sun  is  shut  out,  and  all  the  hill 
streams  are  wailing  and  weeping  together  as  they  go 
down  the  valleys. 

Occasionally,  folk  tend  the  graves,  but  we  in  India 
shift  and  are  transferred  so  often  that,  at  the  end  of  the 
second  year,  the  Dead  have  no  friends  —  only  acquaint¬ 
ances  who  are  far  too  busy  amusing  themselves  up  the 
hill  to  attend  to  old  partners.  The  idea  of  using  a 
Cemetery  as  a  rendezvous  is  distinctly  a  feminine  one. 
A  man  would  have  said  simply,  4  Let  people  talk. 
We’ll  go  down  the  Mall.’  A  woman  is  made  differ- 


AT  THE  PIT’S  MOUTH 


33 


f 


ently,  especially  if  she  be  such  a  woman  as  the  Man’s 
Wife.  She  and  the  Tertium  Quid  enjoyed  each  other’s 
society  among  the  graves  of  men  and  women  whom  they 
had  known  and  danced  with  aforetime. 

They  used  to  take  a  big  horse-blanket  and  sit  on  the 
grass  a  little  to  the  left  of  the  lower  end,  where  there 
is  a  dip  in  the  ground,  and  where  the  occupied  graves 
stop  short  and  the  ready-made  ones  are  not  ready. 
Each  well-regulated  Indian  Cemetery  keeps  half  a 
dozen  graves  permanently  open  for  contingencies  and 
incidental  wear  and  tear.  In  the  Hills  these  are  more 
usually  baby’s  size,  because  children  who  come  up 
weakened  and  sick  from  the  Plains  often  succumb  to 
the  effects  of  the  Rains  in  the  Hills  or  get  pneumonia 
from  their  ayahs  taking  them  through  damp  pine- woods 
after  the  sun  has  set.  In  Cantonments,  of  course,  the 
man’s  size  is  more  in  request ;  these  arrangements  vary¬ 
ing  with  the  climate  and  population. 

One  day  when  the  Man’s  Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid 
had  just  arrived  in  the  Cemetery,  they  saw  some  coolies 
breaking  ground.  They  had  marked  out  a  full-size 
grave,  and  the  Tertium  Quid  asked  them  whether  any 
Sahib  was  sick.  They  said  that  they  did  not  know ;  but 
it  was  an  order  that  they  should  dig  a  Sahib's  grave. 

‘Work  away,’  said  the  Tertium  Quid,  ‘and  let’s  see 
how  it’s  done.’ 

The  coolies  worked  away,  and  the  Man’s  Wife  and 
the  Tertium  Quid  watched  and  talked  for  a  couple  of 
hours  while  the  grave  was  being  deepened.  Then  a 
coolie,  taking  the  earth  in  baskets  as  it  was  thrown  up, 
jumped  over  the  grave. 

‘That's  queer,’  said  the  Tertium  Quid.  ‘Where’s 
my  ulster  T  * 


34 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘  What’s  queer  ?  ’  said  the  Man’s  Wife. 

4 1  have  got  a  chill  down  my  back — just  as  if  a  goose 
had  walked  over  my  grave.’ 

‘Why  do  you  look  at  the  thing,  then?’  said  the 
Man’s  Wife.  ‘ Let  us  go.’ 

The  Tertium  Quid  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave, 
and  stared  without  answering  for  a  space.  Then  he 
said,  dropping  a  pebble  down,  ‘  It  is  nasty  —  and  cold: 
horribly  cold.  I  don’t  think  I  shall  come  to  the  Ceme¬ 
tery  any  more.  I  don’t  think  grave-digging  is  cheerful.’ 

The  two  talked  and  agreed  that  the  Cemetery  was 
depressing.  They  also  arranged  for  a  ride  next  day 
out  from  the  Cemetery  through  the  Mashobra  Tunnel 
up  to  Fagoo  and  back,  because  all  the  world  was  going 
to  a  garden-party  at  Viceregal  Lodge,  and  all  the  people 
of  Mashobra  would  go  too. 

Coming  up  the  Cemetery  road,  the  Tertium  Quid’s 
horse  tried  to  bolt  up-hill,  being  tired  with  standing  so 
long,  and  managed  to  strain  a  back  sinew. 

‘I  shall  have  to  take  the  mare  to-morrow,’  said  the 
Tertium  Quid,  ‘and  she  will  stand  nothing  heavier 
than  a  snaffle.’ 

They  made  their  arrangements  to  meet  in  the  Ceme¬ 
tery,  after  allowing  all  the  Mashobra  people  time  to 
pass  into  Simla.  That  night  it  rained  heavily,  and, 
next  day,  when  the  Tertium  Quid  came  to  the  trysting- 
place,  he  saw  that  the  new  grave  had  a  foot  of  water 
in  it,  the  ground  being  a  tough  and  sour  clay. 

‘  ’Jove!  That  looks  beastly,’  said  the  Tertium  Quid. 
‘  Fancy  being  boarded  up  and  dropped  into  that  well!  ’ 

They  then  started  off  to  Fagoo,  the  mare  playing 
with  the  snaffle  and  picking  her  way  as  though  she 
were  shod  with  satin,  and  the  sun  shining  divinely. 


AT  THE  PIT’S  MOUTH 


35 


The  road  below  Mashobra  to  Fagoo  is  officially  styled 
the  Himalayan-Thibet  Road ;  but  in  spite  of  its  name 
it  is  not  much  more  than  six  feet  wide  in  most  places, 
and  the  drop  into  the  valley  below  may  be  anything 
between  one  and  two  thousand  feet. 

‘Now  we’re  going  to  Thibet,’  said  the  Man’s  Wife 
merrily,  as  the  horses  drew  near  to  Fagoo.  She  was 
riding  on  the  cliff-side. 

‘Into  Thibet,’  said  the  Tertium  Quid,  ‘ever  so  far 
from  people  who  say  horrid  things,  and  hubbies  who 
write  stupid  letters.  With  you  —  to  the  end  of  the 
world!  ’ 

A  coolie  carrying  a  log  of  wood  came  round  a  corner, 
and  the  mare  went  wide  to  avoid  him  —  forefeet  in  and 
haunches  out,  as  a  sensible  mare  should  go. 

‘To  the  world’s  end,’  said  the  Man’s*  Wife,  and 
looked  unspeakable  things  over  her  near  shoulder  at 
the  Tertium  Quid. 

He  was  smiling,  but,  while  she  looked,  the  smile 
froze  stiff  as  it  were  on  his  face,  and  changed  to  a  ner¬ 
vous  grin  —  the  sort  of  grin  men  wear  when  they  are 
not  quite  easy  in  their  saddles.  The  mare  seemed  to 
be  sinking  by  the  stern,  and  her  nostrils  cracked  while 
she  was  trying  to  realise  what  was  happening.  The 
rain  of  the  night  before  had  rotted  the  drop-side  of  the 
Himalayan-Thibet  Road,  and  it  was  giving  way  under 
her.  ‘What  are  you  doing?’  said  the  Man’s  Wife. 
The  Tertium  Quid  gave  no  answer.  He  grinned  ner¬ 
vously  and  set  his  spurs  into  the  mare,  who  rapped 
with  her  forefeet  on  the  road,  and  the  struggle  began 
The  Man’s  Wife  screamed,  ‘Oh,  Frank,  get  off!  ’ 

But  the  Tertium  Quid  was  glued  to  the  saddle  — 
his  face  blue  and  white  —  and  he  looked  into  the  Man’s 


36 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Wife’s  eyes.  Then  the  Man’s  Wife  clutched  at  the 
mare’s  head  and  caught  her  by  the  nose  instead  of  the 
bridle.  The  brute  threw  up  her  head  and  went  down 
with  a  scream,  the  Tertium  Quid  upon  her,  and  the 
nervous  grin  still  set  on  his  face. 

The  Man’s  Wife  heard  the  tinkle-tinkle  of  little 
stones  and  loose  earth  falling  off  the  roadway,  and  the 
sliding  roar  of  the  man  and  horse  going  down.  Then 
everything  was  quiet,  and  she  called  on  Frank  to  leave 
his  mare  and  walk  up.  But  Frank  did  not  answer. 
He  was  underneath  the  mare,  nine  hundred  feet  below, 
spoiling  a  patch  of  Indian  corn. 

As  the  revellers  came  back  from  Viceregal  Lodge 
in  the  mists  of  the  evening,  they  met  a  temporarily 
insane  woman,  on  a  temporarily  mad  horse,  swinging 
round  the  corners,  with  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  open, 
and  her  head  like  the  head  of  a  Medusa.  She  was 
stopped  by  a  man  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  and  taken  out 
of  the  saddle,  a  limp  heap,  and  put  on  the  bank  to  ex¬ 
plain  herself.  This  wasted  twenty  minutes,  and  then 
she  was  sent  home  in  a  lady’s  ’ rickshaw ,  still  with  her 
mouth  open  and  her  hands  picking  at  her  riding-gloves. 

She  was  in  bed  through  the  following  three  days, 
which  were  rainy ;  so  she  missed  attending  the  funeral 
of  the  Tertium  Quid,  who  was  lowered  into  eighteen 
inches  of  water,  instead  of  the  twelve  to  which  he  had 
first  objected. 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 


Because  to  every  purpose  there  is  time  and  judgment,  therefore  the 
misery  of  man  is  great  upon  him.  —  Eccles.  viii.  6. 

Fate  and  the  Government  of  India  have  turned  the 
Station  of  Kashima  into  a  prison  ;  and,  because  there  is 
no  help  for  the  poor  souls  who  are  now  lying  there  in 
torment,  I  write  this  story,  praying  that  the  Govern¬ 
ment  of  India  may  be  moved  to  scatter  the  European 
population  to  the  four  winds. 

Kashima  is  bounded  on  all  sides  by  the  rock-tipped 
circle  of  the  Dosehri  hills.  In  Spring,  it  is  ablaze  with 
roses  ;  in  Summer,  the  roses  die  and  the  hot  winds  blow 
from  the  hills  ;  in  Autumn,  the  white  mists  from  the 
jhils  cover  the  place  as  with  water,  and  in  Winter  the 
frosts  nip  everything  young  and  tender  to  earth-level. 
There  is  but  one  view  in  Kashima  —  a  stretcn  of  per¬ 
fectly  flat  pasture  and  plough-land,  running  up  to  the 
gray-blue  scrub  of  the  Dosehri  hills. 

There  are  no  amusements,  except  snipe  and  tiger 
shooting  ,  but  the  tigers  have  been  long  since  hunted 
from  their  lairs  in  the  rock-caves,  and  the  snipe  only 
come  once  a  year.  Narkarra —  one  hundred  and  forty- 
three  miles  by  road  —  is  the  nearest  station  to  Kashima. 
But  Kashima  never  goes  to  Narkarra,  where  there  are 
at  least  twelve  English  people.  It  stays  within  the 
circle  of  the  Dosehri  hills. 

All  Kashima  acquits  Mrs.  Vansuythen  of  any  inten- 

37 


38 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


tion  to  do  harm  ;  but  all  Kashima  knows  that  she,  and 
she  alone,  brought  about  their  pain. 

Boulte,  the  Engineer,  Mrs.  Boulte,  and  Captain  Kur- 
rell  know  this.  They  are  the  English  population  of 
Kashima,  if  we  except  Major  Vansuythen,  who  is  of 
no  importance  whatever,  and  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  who 
is  the  most  important  of  all. 

You  must  remember,  though  you  will  not  under¬ 
stand,  that  all  laws  weaken  in  a.  small  and  hidden  com¬ 
munity  where  there  is  no  public  opinion.  When  a  man 
is  absolutely  alone  in  a  Station  he  runs  a  certain  risk 
of  falling  into  evil  ways.  This  risk  is  multiplied  by 
every  addition  to  the  population  up  to  twelve  —  the 
Jury-number.  After  that,  fear  and  consequent  restraint 
begin,  and  human  action  becomes  less  grotesquely 
jerky. 

There  was  deep  peace  in  Kashima  till  Mrs.  Vansuy- 
then  arrived.  She  was  a  charming  woman,  every  one 
said  so  everywhere  ;  and  she  charmed  every  one.  In 
spite  of  this,  or,  perhaps,  because  of  this,  since  Fate  is 
so  perverse,  she  cared  only  for  one  man,  and  he  was 
Major  Vansuythen.  Had  she  been  plain  or  stupid, 
this  matter  would  have  been  intelligible  to  Kashima. 
But  she  was  a  fair  woman,  with  very  still  gray  eyes, 
the  colour  of  a  lake  just  before  the  light  of  the  sun 
touches  it.  No  man  who  had  seen  those  eyes  could, 
later  on,  explain  what  fashion  of  woman  she  was  to 
look  upon.  The  eyes  dazzled  him.  Her  own  sex  said 
that  she  was  4  not  bad  looking,  but  spoilt  by  pretending 
to  be  so  grave.’  And  yet  her  gravity  was  natural.  It 
was  not  her  habit  to  smile.  She  merely  went  through 
life,  looking  at  those  who  passed ;  and  the  women 
objected  while  the  men  fell  down  and  worshipped. 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 


39 

She  knows  and  is  deeply  sorry  for  the  evil  she  has 
done  to  Kashima ;  but  Major  Vansuythen  cannot  under¬ 
stand  why  Mrs.  Boulte  does  not  drop  in  to  afternoon 
tea  at  least  three  times  a  week.  4  When  there  are  only 
two  women  in  one  Station,  they  ought  to  see  a  great 
deal  of  each  other,’  says  Major  Vansuythen. 

Long  and  long  before  ever  Mrs.  Vansuythen  came 
out  of  those  far-away  places  where  there  is  society  and 
amusement,  Kurrell  had  discovered  that  Mrs.  Boulte 
was  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him  and  —  you 
dare  not  blame  them.  Kashima  was  as  out  of  the  world 
as  Heaven  or  the  Other  Place,  and  the  Dosehri  hills 
kept  their  secret  well.  Boulte  had  no  concern  in  the 
matter.  He  was  in  camp  for  a  fortnight  at  a  time. 
He  was  a  hard,  heavy  man,  and  neither  Mrs.  Boulte 
nor  Kurrell  pitied  him.  They  had  all  Kashima  and 
each  other  for  their  very,  very  own ;  and  Kashima  was 
the  Garden  of  Eden  in  those  days.  When  Boulte 
returned  from  his  wanderings  he  would  slap  Kurrell 
between  the  shoulders  and  call  him  ‘old  fellow,’  and 
the  three  would  dine  together.  Kashima  was  happy 
then  when  the  judgment  of  God  seemed  almost  as  dis¬ 
tant  as  Narkarra  or  the  railway  that  ran  down  to  the 
sea.  But  the  Government  sent  Major  Vansuythen  to 
Kashima,  and  with  him  came  his  wife. 

The  etiquette  of  Kashima  is  much  the  same  as  that 
of  a  desert  island.  WKen  a  stranger  is  cast  away 
there,  all  hands  go  down  to  the  shore  to  make  him  wel¬ 
come.  Kashima  assembled  at  the  masonry  platform 
close  to  the  Narkarra  Road,  and  spread  tea  for  the 
Vansuythens.  That  ceremony  was  reckoned  a  formal 
call,  and  made  them  free  of  the  Station,  its  rights  and 
privileges.  When  the  Vansuythens  were  settled  down, 


40 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


they  gave  a  tiny  house-warming  to  all  Kashima ;  and 
that  made  Kashima  free  of  their  house,  according  to 
the  immemorial  usage  of  the  Station. 

Then  the  Rains  came,  when  no  one  could  go  into 
camp,  and  the  Narkarra  Road  was  washed  away  by  the 
Ivasun  River,  and  in  the  cup-like  pastures  of  Kashima 
the  cattle  waded  knee-deep.  The  clouds  dropped  down 
from  the  Dosehri  hills  and  covered  everything. 

At  the  end  of  the  Rains,  Boulte’s  manner  towards 
his  wife  changed  and  became  demonstratively  affec¬ 
tionate.  They  had  been  married  twelve  years,  and  the 
change  startled  Mrs.  Roulte,  who  hated  her  husband 
with  the  hate  of  a  woman  who  has  met  with  nothing 
but  kindness  from  her  mate,  and,  in  the  teeth  of  this 
kindness,  has  done  him  a  great  wrong.  Moreover,  she 
had  her  own  trouble  to  fight  with  —  her  watch  to  keep 
over  her  own  property,  Kurrell.  For  two  months  the 
Rains  had  hidden  the  Dosehri  hills  and  many  other 
things  besides;  but,  when  they  lifted,  they  showed 
Mrs.  Boulte  that  her  man  among  men,  her  Ted  —  for 
she  called  him  Ted  in  the  old  days  when  Boulte  was 
out  of  earshot  —  was  slipping  the  links  of  the  alle¬ 
giance. 

t  The  V ansuy then  Woman  has  taken  him,’  Mrs. 
Boulte  said  to  herself;  and  when  Boulte  was  away, 
wept  over  her  belief,  in  the  face  of  the  over-vehement 
blandishments  of  Ted.  Sorrow  in  Kashima  is  as  fort¬ 
unate  as  Love,  because  there  is  nothing  to  weaken  it 
save  the  flight  of  Time.  Mrs.  Boulte  had  never  breathed 
her  suspicion  to  Kurrell  because  she  was  not  certain; 
and  her  nature  led  her  to  be  very  certain  before  she 
took  steps  in  any  direction.  That  is  why  she  behaved 
as  she  did. 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 


41 


Boulte  came  into  the  house  one  evening,  and  leaned 
against  the  door-posts  of  the  drawing-room,  chewing 
his  moustache.  Mrs.  Boulte  was  putting  some  flowers 
into  a  vase.  There  is  a  pretence  of  civilisation  even 
in  Kashima. 

k  Little  woman,’  said  Boulte  quietly,  4  do  yon  care  for 
me  ?  ’ 

‘Immensely,’  said  she,  with  a  laugh.  ‘Can  you 
ask  it  ?  ’ 

‘But  I’m  serious,’  said  Boulte.  ‘ Do  von  care  for 
me  ?  ’ 

Mrs.  Boulte  dropped  the  flowers,  and  turned  round 
quickly.  ‘  Do  you  want  an  honest  answer  ?  ’ 

‘  Ye-es,  I’ve  asked  for  it.’ 

Mrs.  Boulte  spoke  in  a  low,  even  voice  for  five  min¬ 
utes,  very  distinctly,  that  there  might  be  no  misunder¬ 
standing  her  meaning.  When  Samson  broke  the  pillars 
of  Gaza,  he  did  a  little  thing,  and  one  not  to  be  com¬ 
pared  to  the  deliberate  pulling  down  of  a  woman’s 
homestead  about  her  own  ears.  There  was  no  wise 
female  friend  do  advise  Mrs.  Boulte,  the  singularly 
cautious  wife,  to  hold  her  hand.  She  struck  at  Boulte’s 
heart,  because  her  own  was  sick  with  suspicion  of 
Kurrell,  and  worn  out  with  the  long  strain  of  watching 
alone  through  the  Rains.  There  was  no  plan  or  pur¬ 
pose  in  her  speaking.  The  sentences  made  themselves; 
and  Boulte  listened,  leaning  against  the  door-post  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  When  all  was  over,  and  Mrs. 
Boulte  began  to  breathe  through  her  nose  before  break¬ 
ing  out  into  tears,  he  laughed  and  stared  straight  in 
front  of  him  at  the  Dosehri  hills. 

‘  Is  that  all  ?  ’  he  said.  ‘  Thanks,  I  only  wanted  to 
Know,  yon  know. 9  i 


42 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  ’  said  the  woman,  be¬ 
tween  her  sobs. 

4 Do!  Nothing.  What  should  I  do?  Kill  Kurrell 
or  send  you  Home,  or  apply  for  leave  to  get  a  divorce? 
It’s  two  days’  dak  into  Narkarra.’  He  laughed  again 
and  went  on:  4  I’ll  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  You  can 
ask  Kurrell  to  dinner  to-morrow  —  no,  on  Thursday, 
that  will  allow  you  time  to  pack  —  and  you  can  bolt 
with  him.  I  give  you  my  word  I  won’t  follow.’ 

He  took  up  his  helmet  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
and  Mrs.  Boulte  sat  till  the  moonlight  streaked  the 
floor,  thinking  and  thinking  and  thinking.  She  had 
done  her  best  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  pull  the 
house  down  ;  but  it  would  not  fall.  Moreover,  she 
could  not  understand  her  husband,  and  she  was  afraid. 
Then  the  folly  of  her  useless  truthfulness  struck  her, 
and  she  was  ashamed  to  write  to  Kurrell,  saying :  4 1 
have  gone  mad  and  told  everything.  My  husband 
says  that  I  am  free  to  elope  with  you.  Get  a  dak  for 
Thursday,  and  we  will  fly  after  dinner.’  There  was  a 
cold-bloodedness  about  that  procedure  which  did  not 
appeal  to  her.  So  she  sat  still  in  her  own  house  and 
thought. 

At  dinner-time  Boulte  came  back  from  his  walk, 
white  and  worn  and  haggard,  and  the  woman  was 
touched  at  his  distress.  As  the  evening  wore  on,  she 
.muttered  some  expression  of  sorrow*,  something  ap¬ 
proaching  to  contrition.  Boulte  came  out  of  a  brown 
study  and  said,  4  Oh,  that!  I  wasn’t  thinking  about 
that.  By  the  way,  what  does  Kurrell  say  to  the 
elopement  ?  ’ 

4 1  haven’t  seen  him,’  said  Mrs.  Boulte.  4  Good  God ! 
is  that  all  ?  ’ 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 


43 


But  Boulte  was  not  listening,  and  her  sentence  ended 
in  a  gulp. 

The  next  day  brought  no  comfort  to  Mrs.  Boulte,  for 
Kurrell  did  not  appear,  and  the  new  life  that  she,  in 
the  five  minutes’  madness  of  the  previous  evening,  had 
hoped  to  build  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  old,  seemed  to  be 
no  nearer. 

Boulte  ate  his  breakfast,  advised  her  to  see  her  Arab 
pony  fed  in  the  veranda,  and  went  out.  The  morning 
wore  through,  and  at  midday  the  tension  became  unen¬ 
durable.  Mrs.  Boulte  could  not  cry.  She  had  finished 
her  crying  in  the  night,  and  now  she  did  not  want  to 
be  left  alone.  Perhaps  the  Vansuythen  Woman  would 
talk  to  her:  and,  since  talking  opens  the  heart,  perhaps 
there  might  be  some  comfort  to  be  found  in  her  com¬ 
pany.  She  was  the  only  other  woman  in  the  Station. 

In  Kashima  there  are  no  regular  calling-hours. 
Every  one  can  drop  in  upon  every  one  else  at  pleasure. 
Mrs.  Boulte  put  on  a  big  terai  hat,  and  walked  across 
to  the  Vansuythen’s  house  to  borrow  last  week’s  Queen . 
The  two  compounds  touched,  and  instead  of  going  up 
the  drive,  she  crossed  through  the  gap  in  the  cactus- 
hedge,  entering  the  house  from  the  back.  As  she 
passed  through  the  dining-room,  she  heard,  behind  the 
purdah  that  cloaked  the  drawing-room  door,  her  hus¬ 
band’s  voice,  saying  — 

6 But  on  my  Honour!  On  my  Soul  and  Honour, 
I  tell  you  she  doesn’t  care  for  me.  She  told  me  so 
last  night.  I  would  have  told  you  then  if  Vansuy¬ 
then  hadn’t  been  with  you.  If  it  is  for  her  sake  that 
you’ll  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  you  can  make  your 
mind  easy.  It’s  Kurrell - ’ 

‘What?’  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  an  hysterical 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


l  L 


little  laugh.  ‘Kurrell!  Oh,  it  can’t  be!  You  two 
must  have  made  some  horrible  mistake.  Perhaps  you 
_ you  lost  your  tempef,  or  misunderstood,  or  something. 

Things  cant  be  as  wrong  as  you  say.’ 

Mrs.  Yansuythen  had  shifted  her  defence  to  avoid 
the  man’s  pleading,  and  was  desperately  trying  to  keep 
him  to  a  side-issue. 

4  There  must  be  some  mistake,’  she  insisted,  4  and  it 
can  be  all  put  right  again. 

Boulte  laughed  grimly. 

4 It  can’t  be  Captain  Kurrell!  He  told  me  that  he 
had  never  taken  the  least  — the  least  interest  in  your 
wife,  Mr.  Boulte.  Oh,  do  listen!  He  said  he  had  not. 
He  swore  he  had  not,’  said  Mrs.  Yansuythen. 

The  purdah  rustled,  and  the  speech  was  cut  short 
by  the  entry  of  a  little,  thin  woman,  with  big  rings 
round  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Yansuythen  stood  up  with  a 

^  4 What  was  that  you  said?’  asked  Mrs.  Boulte. 
‘Never  mind  that  man.  What  did  Ted  say  to  you? 
What  did  he  say  to  you?  What  did  he  say  to  you ? 

Mrs.  Yansuythen  sat  down  helplessly  on  the  sofa 
overborne  by  the  trouble  of  her  questioner. 

4  He  said — I  can’t  remember  exactly  what  he  said  — 
but  I  understood  him  to  say— that  is -  But,  really, 


Mrs.  Boulte,  isn’t  it  rather  a  strange  question?’ 

4 Will  you  tell  me  what  he  said?’  repeated  Mrs. 
Boulte.  Even  a  tiger  will  fly  before  a  bear  robbed  of 
her  whelps,  and  Mrs.  Yansuythen  was  only  an  ordina¬ 
rily  good  woman.  She  began  in  a  sort  of  desperation: 
4  Well,  he  said  that  he  never  cared  for  you  at  all,  and, 
of  course,  there  was  not  the  least  reason  why  he  should 
have,  and — and — that  was  all.’ 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY  45 

•You  said  he  swore  he  had  not  cared  for  me.  Was 
that  true  ?  ’ 

‘Yes,’  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen  very  softly. 

Mrs.  Boulte  wavered  for  an  instant  where  she  stood, 
and  then  fell  forward  fainting. 

‘What  did  I  tell  you?’  said  Boulte,  as  though  the 
conversation  had  been  unbroken.  ‘You  can  see  for 
yourself.  She  cares  for  him.'  The  light  began  to 
break  into  his  dull  mind,  and  he  went  on — ‘And  he  — 
what  was  lie  saying  to  3^011  ?  ’ 

But  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  no  heart  for  explana¬ 
tions  or  impassioned  protestations,  was  kneeling  over 
Mrs.  Boulte. 

‘Oh,  you  brute!’  she  cried.  ‘Are  all  men  like 
this?  Help  me  to  get  her  into  my  room  —  and  her 
face  is  cut  against  the  table.  Oh,  will  you  be  quiet, 
and  help  me  to  carry  her?  I  hate  you,  and  I  hate 
Captain  Kurrell.  Lift  her  up  carefully  and  now  — 
go!  Go  away!  ’ 

Boulte  carried  his  wife  into  Mrs.  Vansuythen’s  bed¬ 
room  and  departed  before  the  storm  of  that  lady’s 
wrath  and  disgust,  impenitent  and  burning  with  jeal¬ 
ousy.  Kurrell  had  been  making  love  to  Mrs.  Vansuy¬ 
then  —  would  do  Vansuythen  as  great  a  wrong  as  he  had 
done  Boulte,  who  caught  himself  considering  whether 
Mrs.  Vansuythen  would  faint  if  she  discovered  that  the 
man  she  loved  had  foresworn  her. 

In  the  middle  of  these  meditations,  Kurrell  came 
cantering  along  the  road  and  pulled  up  with  a  cheery, 

‘  Good-mornin’.  ’Been  mashing  Mrs.  Vansuythen  as 
usual,  eh  ?  Bad  thing  for  a  sober,  married  man,  that. 
What  will  Mrs.  Boulte  sa}r?’ 

Boulte  raised  his  head  and  said  slowly,  ‘  Oh,  you 


46 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


liar!’  Kurrell’s  face  changed.  ‘What’s  that?’  he 
asked  quickly. 

‘Nothing  much,’  said  Boulte.  ‘Has  my  wife  told 
you  that  you  two  are  free  to  go  off  whenever  you  please? 
She  has  been  good  enough  to  explain  the  situation  to 
me.  You’ve  been  a  true  friend  to  me,  Kurrell  —  old 
man  —  haven’t  you  ?  ’ 

Kurrell  groaned,  and  tried  to  frame  some  sort  of 
idiotic  sentence  about  being  willing  to  give  ‘  satisfac¬ 
tion.’  But  his  interest  in  the  woman  was  dead,  had 
died  out  in  the  Rains,  and,  mentally,  he  was  abusing 
her  for  her  amazing  indiscretion.  It  would  have  been 
so  easy  to  have  broken  off  the  thing  gently  and  by 

degrees,  and  now  he  was  saddled  with -  Boulte  s 

voice  recalled  him. 

‘  I  don’t  think  I  should  get  any  satisfaction  from  kill¬ 
ing  you,  and  I’m  pretty  sure  you’d  get  none  from 
killing  me.’ 

Then  in  a  querulous  tone,  ludicrously  disproportioned 

to  his  wrongs,  Boulte  added  — 

‘’Seems  rather  a  pity  that  you  haven  t  the  decency 
to  keep  to  the  woman,  now  you’ve  got  her.  You’ve 
been  a  true  friend  to  her  too,  haven’t  you?  ’ 

Kurrell  stared  long  and  gravely.  The  situation  was 
getting  beyond  him. 

‘  What  do  you  mean  ?  ’  he  said. 

Boulte  answered,  more  to  himself  than  the  questioner: 
‘My  wife  came  over  to  Mrs.  Yansuythen’s  just  now; 
and  it  seems  you’d  been  telling  Mrs.  Vansuythen  that 
you’d  never  cared  for  Emma.  I  suppose  you  lied,  as 
usual.  What  had  Mrs.  Vansuythen  to  do  with  you,  or 
you  with  her  ?  Try  to  speak  the  truth  for  once  in  a 
way.’ 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 


47 


Kurrell  took  the  double  insult  without  wincing,  and 
replied  by  another  question:  4  Go  on.  What  hap¬ 
pened  ?  ’ 

4  Emma  fainted,’  said  Boulte  simply.  4  But,  look  here, 
what  had  you  been  saying  to  Mrs.  Vansuythen?  ’ 

Kurrell  laughed.  Mrs.  Boulte  had,  with  unbridled 
tongue,  made  havoc  of  his  plans ;  and  he  could  at  least 
retaliate  by  hurting  the  man  in  whose  eyes  he  was 
humiliated  and  shown  dishonourable. 

4  Said  to  her  ?  What  does  a  man  tell  a  lie  like  that 
for  ?  I  suppose  I  said  pretty  much  what  you’ve  said, 
unless  I’m  a  good  deal  mistaken.’ 

4 1  spoke  the  truth,’  said  Boulte,  again  more  to  him¬ 
self  than  Kurrell.  4  Emma  told  me  she  hated  me.  She 
has  no  right  in  me.’ 

4 No!  I  suppose  not.  You’re  only  her  husband, 
y’know.  And  w'hat  did  Mrs.  Vansuythen  say  after 
you  had  laid  your  disengaged  heart  at  her  feet  ?  ’ 

Kurrell  felt  almost  virtuous  as  he  put  the  question. 

4 1  don’t  think  that  matters,’  Boulte  replied ;  4  and  it 
doesn’t  concern  you.’ 

4  But  it  does  !  I  tell  you  it  does  ’  —  began  Kurrell 
shamelessly. 

The  sentence  was  cut  by  a  roar  of  laughter  from 
Boulte’s  lips.  Kurrell  was  silent  for  an  instant,  and 
then  he,  too,  laughed  —  laughed  long  and  loudly,  rock¬ 
ing  in  his  saddle.  It  was  an  unpleasant  sound  —  the 
mirthless  mirth  of  these  men  on  the  long,  white  line 
of  the  Narkarra  Road.  There  were  no  strangers  in 
Ivashima,  or  they  might  have  thought  that  captivity 
within  the  Dosehri  hills  had  driven  half  the  European 
population  mad.  The  laughter  ended  abruptly,  and 
Kurrell  was  the  first  to  speak. 


48 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  ’ 

•  Boulte  looked  up  the  road,  and  at  the  hills.  ‘Noth¬ 
ing,’  said  he  quietly;  4  what’s  the  use  ?  It’s  too  ghastly 
for  anything.  VV  e  must  let  the  old  life  go  on.  I  can 
only  call  you  a  hound  and  a  liar,  and  I  can’t  go  on 
calling  you  names  for  ever.  Besides  which,  I  don’t 
feel  that  I’m  much  better.  We  can’t  get  out  of  this 
place.  What  is  there  to  do  ?  ’ 

Ivurrell  looked  round  the  rat-pit  of  Kashima  and 
made  no  reply.  The  injured  husband  took  up  the 
wondrous  tale. 

4  Ride  on,  and  speak  to  Emma  if  you  want  to.  God 
knows  I  don’t  care  what  you  do.’ 

He  walked  forward,  and  left  Kurrell  gazing  blankly 
after  him.  Kurrell  did  not  ride  on  either  to  see  Mrs. 
Boulte  or  Mrs.  Vansuythen.  He  sat  in  his  saddle  and 
thought,  while  his  pony  grazed  by  the  roadside. 

The  whir  of  approaching  wheels  roused  him.  Mrs. 
Vansuythen  was  driving  home  Mrs.  Boulte,  white  and 
wan,  with  a  cut  on  her  forehead. 

4  Stop,  please,’  said  Mrs.  Boulte,  4 1  want  to  speak  to 

Ted.’ 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  obeyed,  but  as  Mrs.  Boulte  leaned 
forward,  putting  her  hand  upon  the  splash-board  of  the 
dog-cart,  Kurrell  spoke. 

4  I’ve  seen  your  husband,  Mrs.  Boulte.’ 

There  was  no  necessity  for  any  further  explanation. 
The  man’s  eyes  were  fixed,  not  upon  Mrs.  Boulte,  but 
her  companion.  Mrs.  Boulte  saw  the  look. 

4  Speak  to  him  !  ’  she  pleaded,  turning  to  the  woman 
at  her  side.  4  Oh,  speak  to  him!  Tell  him  what  you 
told  me  just  now.  Tell  him  you  hate  him.  Tell  him 
you  hate  him  !  ’ 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 


49 


She  bent  forward  and  wept  bitterly,  while  the  sais , 
impassive,  went  forward  to  hold  the  horse.  Mrs.  Van- 
suythen  turned  scarlet  and  dropped  the  reins.  She 
wished  to  be  no  party  to  such  unholy  explanations. 

4  I’ve  nothing  to  do  with  it,’  she  began  coldly ;  but 
Mrs.  Boulte’s  sobs  overcame  her,  and  she  addressed 
herself  to  the  man.  4  I  don’t  know  what  I  am  to  say, 
Captain  Ivurrell.  I  don’t  know  what  I  can  call  you. 
I  think  you’ve  —  you’ve  behaved  abominably,  and  she 
has  cut  her  forehead  terribly  against  the  table.’ 

4  It  doesn’t  hurt.  It  isn’t  anything,’  said  Mrs.  Boulte 
feebly.  4  That  doesn’t  matter.  Tell  him  what  you 
told  me.  Say  you  don’t  care  for  him.  Oh,  Ted,  won't 
you  believe  her  ?  ’ 

4  Mrs.  Boulte  has  made  me  understand  that  you  were 
—  that  you  were  fond  of  her  once  upon  a  time,’  went 
on  Mrs.  Vansuythen. 

4  Well !’  said  Ivurrell  brutally.  4  It  seems  to  me  that 
Mrs.  Boulte  had  better  be  fond  of  her  own  husband 
first.’ 

4  Stop  !’ said  Mrs.  Vansuythen.  4  Hear  me  first.  I 
don’t  care  —  I  don’t  want  to  know  anything  about  you 
and  Mrs.  Boulte  ;  but  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  hate 
you,  that  I  think  you  are  a  cur,  and  that  I’ll  never. 
never  speak  to  you  again.  Oh,  I  don’t  dare  to  say  what 
I  think  of  you,  you - man !  ’ 

4 1  want  to  speak  to  Ted,’  moaned  Mrs.  Boulte,  but  the 
dog-cart  rattled  on,  and  Ivurrell  was  left  on  the  road, 
shamed,  and  boiling  with  wrath  against  Mrs.  Boulte. 

He  waited  till  Mrs.  Vansuythen  was  driving  back  to 
her  own  house,  and,  she  being  freed  from  the  embarrass¬ 
ment  of  Mrs.  Boulte’s  presence,  learned  for  the  second 
time  her  opinion  of  himself  and  his  actions. 


50 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Iii  the  evenings,  it  was  the  wont  of  all  Kashima  tc 
meet  at  the  platform  on  the  Narkarra  Road,  to  drink  tea, 
and  discuss  the  trivialities  of  the  day.  Major  Vansuy- 
tlien  and  his  wife  found  themselves  alone  at  the  gather¬ 
ing-place  for  almost  the  first  time  in  their  remembrance; 
and  the  cheery  Major,  in  the  teeth  of  his  wife’s  remark¬ 
ably  reasonable  suggestion  that  the  rest  of  the  Station 
might  be  sick,  insisted  upon  driving  round  to  the  two 
bungalows  and  unearthing  the  population. 

4  Sitting  in  the  twilight !  ’  said  he,  with  great  indig¬ 
nation,  to  the  Boultes.  4  That’ll  never  do!  Hang  it 
all,  we’re  one  family  here!  You  must  come  out,  and 
so  must  Kurrell.  I’ll  make  him  bring  his  banjo. 

So  great  is  the  power  of  honest  simplicity  and  a  good 
digestion  over  guilty  consciences  that  all  Ivashima  did 
turn  out,  even  down  to  the  banjo  ;  and  the  Major  em¬ 
braced  the  company  in  one  expansive  grin.  As  he 
grinned,  Mrs.  Vansuythen  raised  her  eyes  for  an  instant 
and  looked  at  all  Kashima.  Her  meaning  was  clear. 
Major  Vansuythen  would  never  know  anything.  He 
was  to  be  the  outsider  in  that  happy  family  whose  cage 
was  the  Dosehri  hills. 

‘You’re  singing  villainously  out  of  tune,  Kurrell,’ 
said  the  Major  truthfully.  4  Pass  me  that  banjo. 

And  he  sang  in  excruciating-wise  till  the  stars  came 
out  and  all  Kashima  went  to  dinner. 

********* 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  New  Life  of  Kashima 
—  the  life  that  Mrs.  Boulte  made  when  her  tongue  was 
loosened  in  the  twilight. 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  has  never  told  the  Major  ;  and 
since  he  insists  upon  keeping  up  a  burdensome  genial¬ 
ity,  she  has  been  compelled  to  break  her  vow  of  not 


A  WAYSIDE  COMEDY 


51 


speaking  to  Kurrell.  This  speech,  which  must  of 
necessity  preserve  the  semblance  of  politeness  and  in¬ 
terest,  serves  admirably  to  keep  alight  the  flame  of 
jealousy  and  dull  hatred  in  Boulte’s  bosom,  as  it 
awakens  the  same  passions  in  his  wife’s  heart.  Mrs. 
Boulte  hates  Mrs.  Vansuythen  because  she  has  taken 
Ted  from  her,  and,  in  some  curious  fashion,  hates  her 
because  Mrs.  V ansuythen  - —  and  here  the  wife’s  eyes 
see  far  more  clearly  than  the  husband’s  — detests  Ted. 
And  Ted  —  that  gallant  captain  and  honourable  man — 
knows  now  that  it  is  possible  to  hate  a  woman  once 
loved,  to  the  verge  of  wishing  to  silence  her  for  ever 
with  blows.  Above  all,  is  he  shocked  that  Mrs.  Boulte 
cannot  see  the  error  of  her  ways. 

Boulte  and  he  go  out  tiger-shooting  together  in  all 
friendship.  Boulte  has  put  their  relationship  on  a 
most  satisfactory  footing. 

‘You’re  a  blackguard,’  he  says  to  Kurrell,  ‘and  I’ve 
lost  any  self-respect  I  may  ever  have  had  ;  but  when 
you’re  with  me,  I  can  feel  certain  that  you  are  not  with 
Mrs.  Vansuythen,  or  making  Emma  miserable.’ 

Kurrell  endures  anything  that  Boulte  may  say  to 
him.  Sometimes  they  are  away  for  three  days  together, 
and  then  the  Major  insists  upon  his  wife  going  over  to 
sit  with  Mrs.  Boulte  ;  although  Mrs.  Vansuythen  has 
repeatedly  declared  that  she  prefers  her  husband’s  com¬ 
pany  to  any  in  the  world.  From  the  way  in  which  she 
clings  to  him,  she  would  certainly  seem  to  be  speaking 
the  truth. 

But  of  course,  as  the  Major  says,  ‘in  a  little  Station 
we  must  all  be  friendly.’ 


LIBRARY 

UfMVERSOV  OF  ILLINOIS 

[mmk 


THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGED1 


Me.  Hawkins  Mumkath,  of  Her  Majesty’s  Bengal 
Civil  Service,  lay  down  to  die  of  enteric  fever ;  and, 
being  a  thorough-minded  man,  so  nearly  accomplished 
his  purpose  that  all  his  friends,  two  doctors,  and  the 
Government  he  served  gave  him  up  for  lost.  Indeed, 
upon  a  false  rumour  the  night  before  he  rallied,  sev¬ 
eral  journals  published  very  pleasant  obituary  notices, 
which,  three  weeks  later,  Mr.  Mumrath  sat  up  in  bed 
and  studied  with  interest.  It  is  strange  to  read  about 
yourself  in  the  past  tense,  and  soothing  to  discover 
that  for  all  your  faults,  your  world  ‘might  have 
spared  a  better  man.’  When  a  Bengal  civilian  is 
tepid  and  harmless,  newspapers  always  conclude  their 
notices  with  this  reflection.  It  entirely  failed  to  amuse 
Mr.  Mumrath. 

The  loving-kindness  of  the  Government  provides  for 
the  use  of  its  servants  in  the  East  luxuries  undreamed 
of  by  other  civilizations.  A  State-paid  doctor  closed 
Mumratli’s  eyes,  — till  Mumrath  insisted  upon  opening 
them  again ;  a  subventionized  undertaker  bought  Gov¬ 
ernment  timber  for  a  Government  coffin,  and  the  great 
cemetery  of  St.  Golgotha-in-Partibus  prepared,  accord¬ 
ing  to  regulation,  a  brick-lined  grave,  headed  and 
edged,  with  masonry  rests  for  the  coffin.  Ihe  cost  of 
that  grave  was  175  rupees  14  annas,  including  the  lease 

1  Copyright,  1S95,  by  Macmillan  &  Co. 

i  52 


THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGED 


53 


of  the  land  in  perpetuity.  Very  minute  are  the  instruc¬ 
tions  of  the  Government  for  the  disposal,  wharfage, 
and  demurrage  of  its  dead ;  hut  the  actual  arrange¬ 
ments  are  not  published  in  any  appendix  to  pay  and 
pension  rules,  for  the  same  reason  that  led  a  Prussian 
officer  not  to  leave  his  dead  and  wounded  too  long  in 
the  sight  of  a  battery  under  fire. 

Mr.  Mumrath  recovered  and  went  about  his  work, 
to  the  disgust  of  his  juniors  who  had  hoped  promotion 
from  his  decease.  The  undertaker  sold  the  coffin,  at  a 
profit,  to  a  fat  Armenian  merchant  in  Calcutta,  and  the 
State-paid  doctor  profited  in  practice  by  Mumrath’s 
resurrection  from  the  dead.  The  Cemetery  of  St.  Gol- 
gotha-in-Partibus  sat  down  by  the  head  of  the  new- 
made  grave  with  the  beautiful  brick  lining,  and  waited 
for  the  corpse  then  signing  despatches  in  an  office  three 
miles  away.  The  yearly  accounts  were  made  up ;  and 
there  remained  over,  unpaid  for,  one  grave,  cost  175 
rupees  14  annas.  The  vouchers  for  all  the  other  graves 
carried  the  name  of  a  deceased  servant  of  the  Govern¬ 
ment.  Only  one  space  was  blank  in  the  column. 

Then  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb,  Sub-deputy  Assistant  in  the 
Accounts  Department,  being  full  of  zeal  for  the  State 
and  but  newly  appointed  to  his  important  post,  wrote 
officially  to  the  Cemetery,  desiring  to  know  the  inward¬ 
ness  of  that  grave,  and  ‘having  the  honou.  to  be,’  etc. 
The  Cemetery  wrote  officially  that  there  was  no  inward¬ 
ness  at  all,  but  a  complete  emptiness ;  said  grave  hav¬ 
ing  been  ordered  for  Mr.  Hawkins  Mumrath,  and  ‘  had 
the  honour  to  remain.’  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  had  the 
honour  to  point  out  that,  the  grave  being  unused,  the 
Government  could  by  no  means  pay  for  it.  The  Ceme¬ 
tery  wished  to  know  if  the  account  could  be  carried 


54 


UJNDEK  THE  DEODARS 


over  to  the  next  year,  4  pending  anticipated  taking-up 
of  grave.’ 

Ahutosli  Lai  Deb  said  that  he  was  not  going  to  have 
the  accounts  confused.  Discrepancy  was  the  soul  of 
badinage  and  defalcations.  The  Cemetery  would  be 
good  enough  to  adjust  on  the  financial  basis  of  that 

year. 

The  Cemetery  wished  they  might  be  buried  if  they 
saw  their  way  to  doing  it,  and  there  really  had  been 
more  than  two  thousand  burned  bricks  put  into  the 
lining  of  the  grave.  Meantime,  they  complained,  the 
Government  Brickfield  Audit  was  waiting  until  all  mate¬ 
rial  should  have  been  paid  for. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  wrote :  4  Refer  to  Mr.  Mumrath.’ 
The  Cemetery  referred  semi-officially.  It  struck  them 
as  being  rather  a  delicate  matter,  but  orders  are  orders. 

Hawkins  Mumrath  wrote  back,  saying  that  he  had 
the  honour  to  be  quite  well,  and  not  in  the  least  in 
need  of  a  grave,  brick-lined  or  otherwise.  He  recom¬ 
mended  the  head  of  the  Cemetery  to  get  into  that 
grave  and  stay  there.  The  Cemetery  forwarded  the 
letter  to  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb,  for  reference  and  order. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  forwarded  it  to  the  Provincial 
Government,  who  filed  it  behind  a  mass  of  other  files 
and  forgot  all  about  it. 

A  fat  she-cobra  crawled  into  the  neglected  grave, 
and  laid  her  eggs  among  the  bricks.  The  Rains  fell, 
and  a  little  sprinkling  of  grass  jewelled  the  brick  floor. 

The  Cemetery  wrote  to  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb,  advising 
him  that  Mr.  Mumrath  had  not  paid  for  the  grave,  and 
requesting  that  the  sum  might  be  stopped  from  his 
monthly  pay.  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  sent  the  letter  to 
Hawkins  Mumrath  as  a  reminder. 


THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGEP 


55 


Hawkins  Mffimrath  swore  j  but  when  he  had  sworn, 
he  began  to  feel  frightened.  The  enteric  fever  had 
destroyed  his  nerve.  He  wrote  to  the  Accounts  Depart 
ment,  protesting  against  the  injustice  of  paying  for  a 
giave  befoiehand.  Deductions  for  pension  or  widow7s 
annuity  were  quite  right,  but  this  sort  of  deduction 
was  an  imposition  besides  being  sarcastic. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  wrote  that  Mr.  Mumrath’s  style 
was  not  one  usually  employed  in  official  correspon¬ 
dence,  and  requested  him  to  modulate  it  and  pay  for 
the  grave.  Hawkins  Mumrath  tossed  the  letter  into 
the  fire,  and  wrote  to  the  Provincial  Government. 

The  Provincial  Government  had  the  honour  to  point 
out  that  the  matter  rested  entirely  between  Mr.  Haw¬ 
kins  Mumrath  and  the  Accounts  Department.  They 
saw  no  reason  to  interfere  till  the  money  was  actually 
deducted  from  the  pay.  In  that  eventuality,  if  Mr. 
Hawkins  Mumrath  appealed  through  the  proper  chan¬ 
nels,  he  might,  if  the  matter  were  properly  reported 
upon,  get  a  refund,  less  the  cost  of  his  last  letter,  which 
was  under-stamped.  The  Cemetery  wrote  to  Ahutosh 
Lai  Deb,  enclosing  triplicate  of  grave-bill  and  demand¬ 
ing  some  sort  of  settlement. 

Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  deducted  1T5  rupees  14  annas  from 
Mumrath  s  monthly  pay.  Mumrath  appealed  through 
the  proper  channels.  The  Provincial  Government 
wrote  that  the  expenses  of  all  Government  graves 
solely  concerned  the  Supreme  Government,  to  whom 
his  letter  had  been  forwarded. 

Mumrath  wrote  to  the  Supreme  Government.  The 
Supreme  Government  had  the  honour  to  explain  that 
the  management  of  St.  Golgotha-in-Partibus  was  under 
direct  control  of  the  Provincial  Government,  to  whom 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


56 

they  had  had  the  honour  of  forwarding  his  communica* 
tion.  Mumrath  telegraphed  to  the  Cemetery  to  this 

effect. 

The  Cemetery  telegraphed:  ‘Fiscal  and  finance, 
Supreme ;  management  of  internal  affairs,  Provincial 
Government.  Refer  Revenue  and  Agricultural  De 

partment  for  grave  details.’ 

Mumrath  referred  to  the  Revenue  and  Agricultural 
Department.  That  Department  had  the  honour  t<? 
make  clear  that  it  was  only  concerned  in  the  planta 
tion  of  trees  round  the  Cemetery.  The  Forest  Depart¬ 
ment  controlled  the  reboisement  of  the  edges  of  the 
paths. 

Mumrath  forwarded  all  the  letters  to  Ahutosh  Lai 
Deb,  with  a  request  for  an  immediate  refund  under 
‘Rule  431  A,  Supplementary  Addenda,  Bengal.’  He 
invented  rule  and  reference  pro  re  nata,  having  some 
knowledge  of  the  workings  of  the  tabu  mind. 

The  crest  of  the  Revenue  and  Agricultural  Depart¬ 
ment  frightened  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  more  than  the 
reference.  He  bewilderedly  granted  the  lefund,  and 
recouped  the  Government  from  the  Cemetery  Estab* 
lishment  allowance. 

The  Cemetery  Establishment  Executive  Head  wanted 
to  know  what  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  meant. 

The  Accountant-General  wanted  to  know  what  Aliu- 

^osli  Lai  Deb  meant. 

The  Provincial  Government  wanted  to  know  what 
Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  meant. 

The  Revenue  and  Agriculture,  the  Forest  Depart¬ 
ment,  and  the  Government  Harness  Depot,  which  sup¬ 
plies  the  leather  slings  for  the  biers,  all  wanted  to 
know  what  the  deuce  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  meant. 


THE  PIT  THAT  THEY  DIGGED 


57 


Aliutosli  Lai  Deb  referred  them  severally  to  Mr. 
Hawkins  Mumrath,  who  had  driven  out  to  chuckle 
over  his  victory  all  alone  at  the  head  of  the  brick-lined 
grave  with  the  masonry  foot  rests. 

The  she-cobra  was  sunning  herself  by  the  edge  of 
the  grave  with  her  little  ones  about  her,  for  the 
eggs  had  hatched  out  beautifully.  Hawkins  Mumrath 
stepped  absently  on  the  old  lady’s  tail,  and  she  bit  him 
in  the  ankle. 

Hawkins  Mumrath  drove  home  very  quickly,  and 
died  in  five  hours  and  three-quarters. 

Then  Ahutosh  Lai  Deb  passed  the  entry  to  4  regulai 
account,’  and  there  was  peace  in  India. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION 


What  rendered  vain  their  deep  desire  ? 

A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled, 

And  hade  between  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

He.  Tell  your  jhampanis  not  to  hurry  so,  dear 
They  forget  I’m  fresh  from  the  Plains. 

She.  Sure  proof  that  I  have  not  been  going  out 
with  any  one.  Yes,  they  are  an  untrained  crew. 
Where  do  we  go  ? 

He.  As  usual  —  to  the  world’s  end.  No,  Jakko. 

She.  Have  your  pony  led  after  you,  then.  It  s  a 
long  round. 

He.  And  for  the  last  time,  thank  Heaven  !  ” 

She.  Do  you  mean  that  still?  I  didn’t  dare  to 
write  to  you  about  it  —  all  these  months. 

He.  Mean  it !  I’ve  been  shaping  my  affairs  to  that 
end  since  Autumn.  What  makes  you  speak  as  though 
it  had  occurred  to  you  for  the  first  time  ? 

She.  I  ?  Oh  !  I  don’t  know.  I’ve  had  long  enough 

to  think,  too. 

He.  And  you’ve  changed  your  mind  ? 

She.  No.  You  ought  to  know  that  I  am  a  miracle 
of  constancy.  What  are  your  —  arrangements  ? 

He.  Ours ,  Sweetheart,  please. 

She.  Ours,  be  it  then.  My  poor  boy,  how  the 
prickly  heat  has  marked  your  forehead!  Have  you 
ever  tried  sulphate  of  copper  in  water? 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION 


59 


He.  It’ll  go  away  in  a  day  or  two  up  here.  The 
arrangements  are  simple  enough.  Tonga  in  the  early 
morning  —  reach  Kalka  at  twelve  —  Umballa  at  seven 
—  down,  straight  by  iiight  train,  to  Bombay,  and  then 
the  steamer  of  the  21st  for  Rome.  That’s  my  idea. 
The  Continent  and  Sweden  —  a  ten-week  honeymoon. 

She.  Ssh  !  Don’t  talk  of  it  in  that  way.  It  makes 
me  afraid.  Guy,  how  long  have  we  two  been  insane  ? 

He.  Seven  months  and  fourteen  days,  I  forget  the 
odd  hours  exactly,  but  I’ll  think. 

She.  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  you  remembered. 
Who  are  those  two  on  the  Blessington  Road? 

He.  Eabrey  and  the  Penner  woman.  What  do 
they  matter  to  us?  Tell  me  everything  that  you’ve 
been  doing  and  saying  and  thinking. 

She.  Doing  little,  saying  less,  and  thinking  a  great 
deal.  I’ve  hardly  been  out  at  all. 

He.  That  was  wrong  of  you.  You  haven’t  been 
moping  ? 

She.  Not  very  much.  Can  you  wonder  that  I’m 
disinclined  for  amusement  ? 

He.  Frankly,  I  do.  Where  was  the  difficulty? 

She.  In  this  only.  The  more  people  I  know  and 
the  more  I’m  known  here,  the  wider  spread  will  be  the 
news  of  the  crash  when  it  comes.  I  don’t  like  that. 

He.  Nonsense.  We  shall  be  out  of  it. 

She.  You  think  so  ? 

He.  I’m  sure  of  it,  if  there  is  any  power  in  steam 
or  horse-flesh  to  carry  us  away.  Ha  !  ha  ! 

She.  And  the  fun  of  the  situation  comes  in  — 
where,  my  Lancelot  ? 

He.  Nowhere,  Guinevere.  I  was  only  thinking  of 
something. 


60 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


She.  They  say  men  have  a  keener  sense  of  humour 
than  women.  Now  I  was  thinking  of  the  scandal. 

He.  Don’t  think  of  anything  so  ugly.  We  shal) 
be  beyond  it. 

She.  It  will  be  there  all  the  same  —  in  the  mouths 
of  Simla  —  telegraphed  over  India,  and  talked  of  at  the 
dinners — and  when  He  goes  out  they  will  stare  at 
Him  to  see  how  He  takes  it.  And  we  shall  be  dead, 
Guy  dear  —  dead  and  cast  into  the  outer  darkness 

v  here  there  is - 

He.  Love  at  least.  Isn’t  that  enough  ? 

She.  I  have  said  so. 

He.  And  you  think  so  still  ? 

She.  What  do  you  think  ? 

He.  What  have  I  done  ?  It  means  equal  ruin  to 
me,  as  the  world  reckons  it  —  outcasting,  the  loss  of 
my  appointment,  the  breaking  off  my  life  s  work.  \ 
pay  my  price. 

She.  And  are  you  so  much  above  the  world  that 
you  can  afford  to  pay  it  ?  Am  I  ? 

He.  My  Divinity  —  what  else  ? 

She.  A  very  ordinary  woman  I’m  afraid,  but,  so  far, 
respectable.  How  d’you  do,  Mrs.  Middleditch  ?  Your 
husband?  I  think  he’s  riding  down  to  Annandale 
with  Colonel  Statters.  Yes,  isn’t  it  divine  after  the 

rain  ? - Guy,  how  long  am  I  to  be  allowed  to  bow 

to  Mrs.  Middleditch?  Till  the  17th? 

He.  Frowsy  Scotchwoman !  What  is  the  use  of 
bringing  her  into  the  discussion  ?  \  ou  were  saying  ? 

She.  Nothing.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  man  hanged  ? 

He.  Yes.  Once. 

She.  What  was  it  for  ? 

He.  Murder,  of  course. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  61 

She.  Murder.  Is  that  so  great  a  sin  after  all  ?  I 
wonder  liow  he  felt  before  the  drop  fell. 

He.  I  don’t  think  he  felt  much.  What  a  gruesome 
little  woman  it  is  this  evening  !  You’re  shivering.  Put 
on  your  cape,  dear. 

She.  I  think  I  will.  Oh !  Look  at  the  mist  com» 
ing  over  Sanjaoli ;  and  I  thought  we  should  have  sun¬ 
shine  on  the  Ladies’  Mile  !  Let’s  turn  back. 

He.  What’s  the  good  ?  There’s  a  cloud  on  Elysium 
Hill,  and  that  means  it’s  foggy  all  down  the  MalL  We’ll 
go  on.  It’ll  blow  away  before  we  get  to  the  Convent, 
perhaps.  ’Jove  !  It  is  chilly. 

She.  You  feel  it,  fresh  from  below.  Put  on  your 
ulster.  What  do  you  think  of  my  cape  ? 

He.  Never  ask  a  man  his  opinion  of  a  woman  s 
dress  when  he  is  desperately  and  abjectly  in  love  with 
the  wearer.  Let  me  look.  Like  everything  else  of 
yours  it’s  perfect.  Where  did  you  get  it  from  ? 

She.  He  gav3  it  me,  on  Wednesday  —  our  wedding- 
day,  you  know. 

He.  The  D<  uce  He  did !  He’s  growing  generous 
in  his  old  age.  D’you  like  all  that  frilly,  bunchy  stuff 
at  the  throat?  I  don't. 

She.  Don’ .  you  ? 

Kind  Sii%  o’  your  courtesy, 

As  you  go  by  the  town,  Sir, 

Pray  you  o'  your  love  for  me, 

Buy  me  a  russet  gown,  Sir. 

He.  1  won’t  say  ;  ‘Keek  into  the  draw-well,  Janet, 
Janet.’  Only  wait  a  little,  darling,  and  you  shall  be 
stocked  wTh  russet  gowns  and  everything  else, 

She.  And  when  the  frocks  wear  out,  you’ll  get  me 
new  ones  —  and  everything  else  ? 


62 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


He.  Assuredly. 

She.  I  wonder  ! 

He.  Look  here,  Sweetheart,  I  didn’t  spend  two 
days  and  two  nights  in  the  train  to  hear  you  wonder. 
I  thought  we’d  settled  all  that  at  Shaifazehat. 

She  (dreamily').  At  Shaifazehat?  Does  the  Sta¬ 
tion  go  on  still  ?  That  was  ages  and  ages  ago.  It 
must  be  crumbling  to  pieces.  All  except  the  Amir- 
tollah  kutcha  road.  I  don’t  believe  that  could  crumble 
till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

He.  You  think  so  ?  What  is  the  mood  now  ? 

She.  I  can’t  tell.  How  cold  it  is  !  Let  us  get  on 
quickly. 

He.  ’Better  walk  a  little.  Stop  your  jhampanis  and 
get  out.  What’s  the  matter  with  you  this  evening, 
dear  ? 

She.  Nothing.  You  must  grow  accustomed  to  my 
ways.  If  I’m  boring  you  I  can  go  home.  Here’s  Cap¬ 
tain  Congleton  coming,  I  daresay  he’ll  be  willing  to 
escort  me. 

He.  Goose !  Between  us ,  too !  Damn  Captain 
Congleton ! 

She.  Chivalrous  Knight.  Is  it  your  habit  to  swear 
much  in  talking?  It  jars  a  little,  and  you  might  swear 
at  me. 

He.  My  angel !  I  didn’t  know  what  I  was  saying  ; 
and  you  changed  so  quickly  that  I  couldn’t  follow. 
I’ll  apologise  in  dust  and  ashes. 

She.  There’ll  be  enough  of  those  later  on - ■ 

Good-night,  Captain  Congleton.  Going  to  the  sing¬ 
ing-quadrilles  already?  What  dances  am  I  giving  you 
next  week?  No  !  You  must  have  written  them  down 
wrong.  Five  and  Seven,  I  said.  If  you’ve  made  a 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION  63 

mistake,  I  certainly  don’t  intend  to  suffer  for  it.  You 
must  alter  your  programme. 

He.  I  thought  you  told  me  that  you  had  not  been 
going  out  much  this  season  ? 

She.  Quite  true,  but  when  I  do  I  dance  with  Cap¬ 
tain  Congleton.  He  dances  very  nicely. 

He.  And  sit  out  with  him  I  suppose? 

She.  Yes.  Have  you  any  objection?  Shall  I  stand 
under  the  chandelier  in  future? 

He.  What  does  he  talk  to  you  about  ? 

She.  What  do  men  talk  about  when  they  sit  out  ? 

He.  Ugh!  Don’t!  Well  now  I’m  up,  you  must 
dispense  with  the  fascinating  Congleton  for  a  while. 
I  don’t  like  him. 

She  ( after  a  pause).  Do  you  know  what  you  have 
said? 

He.  ’Can’t  say  that  I  do  exactly.  I’m  not  in  the 
best  of  tempers. 

She.  So  I  see,  —  and  feel.  My  true  and  faithful 
lover,  where  is  your  ‘  eternal  constancy,’  4  unalterable 
trust,’  and  4  reverent  devotion  ’  ?  I  remember  those 
phrases  ;  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  them.  I  mention 
a  man’s  name - 

He.  A  good  deal  more  than  that. 

She.  Well,  speak  to  him  about  a  dance  —  perhaps 
the  last  dance  that  I  shall  ever  dance  in  my  life  before 
I,  —  before  I  go  away ;  and  you  at  once  distrust  and 
insult  me. 

He.  I  never  said  a  word. 

She.  How  much  did  you  imply?  Guy,  is  this 
amount  of  confidence  to  be  our  stock  to  start  the  new 
life  on  ? 

He.  No,  of  course  not.  I  didn’t  mean  that.  On 


6*4 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


nav  word  and  honour,  I  didn’t.  Let  it  pass,  dear. 

JAase  let  ic  pass. 

Sm.  Inis  once — yes*—  and  a  second  time,  and 
again  and  again,  all  through  the  years  when  I  shall  be 
unable  to  resent  it.  Yon  want  too  much,  my  Lance 
lot,  and,  —  you  know  too  much. 

He.  How  do  you  mean? 

She.  That  is  a  part  of  the  punishment.  There 
cannot  be  perfect  trust  between  us. 

He.  In  Heaven’s  name,  why  not? 

She.  Hush !  The  Other  Place  is  quite  enough. 
Ask  yourself. 

He.  I  don’t  follow. 

She.  You  trust  me  so  implicitly  that  when  I  look 

at  another  man -  Nevermind.  Guy.  Have  you 

ever  made  love  to  a  girl  —  a  good  girl  ? 

He.  Something  of  the  sort.  Centuries  ago  — in 
the  Dark  Ages,  before  I  ever  met  you,  dear. 

She.  Tell  me  what  you  said  to  her. 

He.  What  does  a  man  say  to  a  girl  ?  I’ve  forgot¬ 
ten. 

She.  I  remember.  He  tells  her  that  he  trusts  her 
and  worships  the  ground  she  walks  on,  and  that  he  11 
love  and  honour  and  protect  her  till  her  dying  day ; 
and  so  she  marries  in  that  belief.  At  least,  I  speak  of 
one  girl  who  was  not  protected. 

He.  W ell,  and  then  ? 

She.  And  then,  Guy,  and  then,  that  girl  needs  ten 
times  the  love  and  trust  and  honour  — yes,  honour  — 
that  was  enough  when  she  was  only  a  mere  wife  if  — 
if  —  the  other  life  she  chooses  to  lead  is  to  be  made 
even  bearable.  Do  you  understand  ? 

He.  Even  bearable  !  It’ll  be  Paradise. 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION 


65 

She.  Ah  !  Can  you  give  me  all  I’ve  asked  for  — 
not  now,  nor  a  few  months  later,  but  when  you  begin 
to  think  of  what  you  might  have  done  if  you  had  kept 
your  own  appointment  and  your  caste  here  —  when 
you  begin  to  look  upon  me  as  a  drag  and  a  burden  ?  I 
shall  want  it  most,  then,  Guy,  for  there  will  be  no  one 
in  the  wide  world  but  you. 

He.  You’re  a  little  oyer- tired  to-night,  Sweetheart, 
and  you’re  taking  a  stage  view  of  the  situation.  After 
the  necessary  business  in  the  Courts,  the  road  is  clear 

She.  ‘The  holy  state  of  matrimony  !  ’  Ha  !  ha  * 
ha  ! 

He.  Ssli  l  Don’t  laugh  in  that  horrible  way  ! 

She.  1  I  c-c-c-can  t  help  it  !  Isn’t  it  too  absurd ! 
Ah  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Guy,  stop  me  quick  or  I  shall-  • 
1-1-laugh  till  we  get  to  the  Church. 

He.  For  goodness’  sake,  stop  !  Don’t  make  an  ex¬ 
hibition  of  yourself.  What  is  the  matter  with  yon  ? 

She.  N-nothing.  I’m  better  now. 

He.  That’s  all  right.  One  moment,  dear.  There ’i 
a  little  wisp  of  hair  got  loose  from  behind  your  right 
ear  and  it’s  straggling  over  your  cheek.  So  ! 

She.  Thank’oo.  I’m  ’fraid  my  hat’s  on  one  side, 
too. 

He.  What  do  you  wear  these  huge  dagger  bonnet- 
skewers  for  ?  They’re  big  enough  to  kill  a  man  with. 

She.  Oh !  Don’t  kill  me ,  though.  You’re  stick¬ 
ing  it  into  my  head!  Let  me  do  it.  You  men  are  so 
clumsy. 

He.  Have  you  had  many  opportunities  of  compar- 
ing  us  —  in  this  sort  of  work  ? 

She.  Guy,  what  is  my  name  ? 

F  ' 


66 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


He.  Eli!  I  don’t  follow. 

She.  Here’s  my  card-case.  Can  you  read? 

He.  Yes.  Well? 

She.  Well,  that  answers  your  question.  You  know 
the  other  man’s  name.  Am  I  sufficiently  humbled,  or 
would  you  like  to  ask  me  if  there  is  any  one  else  ? 

He.  I  see  now.  My  darling,  I  never  meant  that 
for  an  instant.  I  was  only  joking.  There!  .  Lucky 
there’s  no  one  on  the  road.  They’d  be  scandalised. 

She.  They’ll  be  more  scandalised  before  the  end. 

He.  Do-on’t !  I  don’t  like  you  to  talk  in  that 

way. 

She.  Unreasonable  man !  Who  asked  me  to  face  the 
situation  and  accept  it  ?  —  Tell  me,  do  I  look  like  Mrs. 
Penne:  ?  Bo  1  look  like  a  naughty  woman!  Swear  I 
don’t!  Give  me  your  word  of  honour,  my  honourable 
friend,  that  I’m  not  like  Mrs.  Buzgago.  That’s  the 
way  she  stands,  with  her  hands  clasped  at  the  back  ci 
her  head.  D’you  like  that  ? 

He.  Don’t  be  affected. 

She.  I’m  not.  I’m  Mrs.  Buzgago.  Listen! 

Pendant  une  anne’  tonte  entiere 
Le  regiment  n’a  pas  r’paru. 

Au  Ministere  de  la  Guerre 
On  le  r’porta  comme  perdu. 

On  se  r’noncait  a  r’trouver  sa  trace, 

Quand  un  matin  subitement, 

On  le  vit  r’paraitre  sur  la  place, 

L’Colonel  toujours  en  avant. 

That’s  the  way  she  rolls  her  r’s.  Am  I  like  her  ? 

He.  No,  but  I  object  when  you  go  on  like  an  actress 

and  sing  stuff  of  that  kind.  Where  in  the  world  did 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION 


6? 

you  pick  up  the  Chanson  du  Colonel  ?  It  isn’t  a  draw¬ 
ing-room  song.  It  isn’t  proper. 

She.  Mrs.  Buzgago  taught  it  me.  She  is  both 
drawing-room  and  proper,  and  in  another  month  she’ll 
shut  her  drawing-room  to  me,  and  thank  God  she  isn’t 
as  improper  as  I  am.  Oh,  Guy,  Guy!  I  wish  I  was  like 
some  women  and  had  no  scruples  about  —  what  is  it 
Keene  says  ?  — 4  Wearing  a  corpse’s  hair  and  being 
false  to  the  bread  they  eat.’ 

He.  I  am  only  a  man  of  limited  intelligence,  and, 
just  now,  very  bewildered.  When  you  have  quite  fin¬ 
ished  flashing  through  all  your  moods  tell  me,  and  I’ll 
try  to  understand  the  last  one. 

She.  Moods,  Guy!  I  haven’t  any.  I’m  sixteen 
years  old  and  you’re  just  twenty,  and  you’ve  been 
waiting  for  two  hours  outside  the  school  in  the  cold. 
And  now  I’ve  met  you,  and  now  we’re  walking  home 
together.  Does  that  suit  you,  My  Imperial  Majesty  ? 

He.  No.  We  aren’t  children.  Why  can’t  you  be 
rational  ? 

She.  He  asks  me  that  when  I’m  going  to  commit 
suicide  for  his  sake,  and,  and  —  I  don’t  want  to  be 
French  and  rave  about  my  mother,  but  have  I  ever 
told  you  that  I  have  a  mother,  and  a  brother  who  was 
my  pet  before  I  married?  He’s  married  now.  Can’t 
you  imagine  the  pleasure  that  the  news  of  the  elope¬ 
ment  will  give  him  ?  Have  you  any  people  at  Home, 
Guy,  to  be  pleased  with  your  performances? 

He.  One  or  two.  One  can’t  make  omelets  without 
breaking  eggs. 

She  (slowly').  I  don’t  see  the  necessity - 

He.  Hah!  What  do  you  mean  ? 

She.  Shall  I  speak  the  truth? 


68 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


He.  Under  tlie  circumstances,  perhaps  it  would  he 
as  well. 

She.  Guy,  I’m  afraid. 

He.  I  thought  we’d  settled  all  that.  What  of? 

She-  Of  you. 

He.  Oh,  damn  it  all!  The  old  business!  This  is 

too  bad! 

She.  Of  you. 

He.  And  what  now  ? 

She.  What  do  you  think  of  me? 

He.  Beside  the  question  altogether.  What  do  you 

intend  to  do? 

She.  I  daren’t  risk  it.  I’m  afraid.  If  I  could  only 
cheat - 

He.  A  la  Buzgago?  No,  thanks.  That’s  the  one 
point  on  which  I  have  any  notion  of  Honour.  I  won’t 
eat  his  salt  and  steal  too.  I’ll  loot  openly  or  not  at  all. 
She.  I  never  meant  anything  else. 

He.  Then,  why  in  the  world  do  you  pretend  not  to 

be  willing  to  come? 

She.  It’s  not  pretence,  Guy.  I  am  afraid. 

He.  Please  explain. 

She.  It  can’t  last,  Guy.  It  can’t  last.  You’ll  get 
angry,  and  then  you’ll  swear,  and  then  you’ll  get  jeah 
ous,  and  then  you’ll  mistrust  me  —  you  do  now  —  and 
you  yourself  will  be  the  best  reason  for  doubting.  And 
X — what  shall  I  do  ?  I  shall  be  no  better  than  jVI^s. 
Buzgago  found  out  —  no  better  than  any  one.  And 
you’ll  know  that.  Oh,  Guy,  can’t  you  see? 

He.  I  see  that  you  are  desperately  unreasonable, 

little  woman. 

She.  There !  The  moment  I  begin  to  object,  you 
get  angry.  What  will  you  do  when  I  am  only  your 


THE  HILL  OF  ILLUSION 


69 


property  — ■  stolen  property?  It  can’t  be,  Guy.  It  can’t 
be!  I  thought  it  coulcl,  but  it  can’t.  You’ll  get  tired 
of  me. 

He.  I  tell  you  I  shall  not .  Won’t  anything  make 
you  understand  that? 

She.  There,  can’t  you  see?  If  you  speak  to  me 
like  that  now,  you’ll  call  me  horrible  names  later, 
if  I  don’t  do  everything  as  you  like.  And  if  you 
were  cruel  to  me,  Guy,  where  should  I  go  —  where 
should  I  go?  I  can’t  trust  you.  Oh!  I  can’t  trust 
you ! 

He.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  I  can  trust  you. 
I've  ample  reason. 

She.  Please  don’t,  dear.  It  hurts  as  much  as  if  you 
hit  me. 

He.  It  isn’t  exactly  pleasant  for  me. 

She.  I  can’t  help  it.  I  wish  I  were  dead !  I  can’t 
trust  you,  and  I  don’t  trust  myself.  Oh,  Guy,  let  it 
die  away  and  be  forgotten  ! 

He.  Too  late  now.  I  don’t  understand  you — I 
won’t  —  and  I  can’t  trust  myself  to  talk  this  evening. 
May  I  call  to-morrow? 

She.  Yes.  No!  Oh,  give  me  time  !  The  day  after. 

I  get  into  my  ’ rickshaw  here  and  meet  Him  at  Peliti’s. 
You  ride. 

He.  1 11  go  on  to  Peliti’s  too.  I  think  I  want  a 
drink.  My  world’s  knocked  about  my  ears  and  the 
stars  are  falling.  Who  are  those  brutes  howling  in  the 
Old  Library? 

She.  They’re  rehearsing  the  singing-quadrilles  for 
the  Fancy  Ball.  Can’t  you  hear  Mrs.  Buzgago’s 
voice  ?  She  has  a  solo.  It’s  quite  a  new  idea. 
Listen. 


fQ  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Mrs.  Buzgago  (in  the  Old  Library ,  con.  molt,  exp 

See  saw !  Margery  Daw  ! 

Sold  her  bed  to  lie  upon  straw. 

Wasn’t  she  a  silly  slut 
To  sell  her  bed  and  lie  upon  dirt? 

Captain  Congleton,  I’m  going  to  alter  that  to  ‘  flirt. 

It  sounds  better.  .  .  . 

He.  No,  I’ve  changed  my  mind  about  the  drink 

Good-night,  little  lady.  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow? 
She.  Ye — es.  Good-night,  Guy.  Don't  be  angry 

with  me. 

He.  Angry!  You  know  I  trust  you  absolutely. 

Good-night  and  —  God  bless  you! 

(Three  seconds  later.  Alone.)  Hmm!  Id  give 
something  to  discover  whether  there’s  another  man 

nt  the  back  of  all  this. 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


Estfuga,  volvitur  rota, 

On  we  drift :  where  looms  the  dim  port  ? 

One  Two  Three  Four  Five  contribute  their  quota: 

Something  is  gained  if  one  caught  but  the  import, 

Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha. 

Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha . 

'  Dressed!  Don’t  tell  me  that  woman  ever  dressed  in 
her  life.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  while  her 
ayah  —  no,  her  husband  —  it  must  have  been  a  man  — 
threw  her  clothes  at  her.  She  then  did  her  hair  with 
her  fingers,  and  rubbed  her  bonnet  in  the  flue  under 
the  bed.  I  know  she  did,  as  well  as  if  I  had  assisted 
at  the  orgie.  Who  is  she?’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

‘Don’t!’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  feebly.  ‘You  make 
my  head  ache.  I’m  miserable  to-day.  Stay  me  with 

fondants ,  comfort  me  with  chocolates,  for  I  am _ 

Did  you  bring  anything  from  Peliti’s  ?  ’ 

‘Questions  to  begin  with.  You  shall  have  the  sweets 
when  you  have  answered  them.  Who  and  what  is  the 
creature?  There  were  at  least  half  a  dozen  men  round 
her,  and  she  appeared  to  be  going  to  sleep  in  their 
midst.’ 

‘ Delville,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  ‘“Shady”  Delville, 
to  distinguish  her  from  Mrs.  Jim  of  that  ilk.  She 
dances  as  untidily  as  she  dresses,  I  believe,  and  her 
husband  is  somewhere  in  Madras.  Go  and  call,  if  you 
are  so  interested.’ 

‘  What  have  I  to  do  with  Shigramitish  women  ?  She 

71 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


72 

merely  caught  my  attention  for  a  minute,  and  I  worn 
derecl  at  the  attraction  that  a  dowd  has  for  a  certain 
type  of  man.  I  expected  to  see  her  walk  out  of  her 

clothes  —  until  I  looked  at  her  eyes. 

4  Hooks  and  eyes,  surely,’  drawled  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

4  Don’t  he  clever,  Polly.  You  make  my  head  ache. 
And  round  this  hayrick  stood  a  crowd  of  men  a 
positive  crowd !  ’ 

4  Perhaps  they  also  expected - ’ 

4  Polly,  don’t  he  Rabelaisian  !  ’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  curled  herself  up  comfortably  on  the 
sofa,  and  turned  her  attention  to  the  sweets.  She  and 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  shared  the  same  house  at  Simla;  and 
these  things  befell  two  seasons  after  the  matter  of  Otis 
Yeere,  which  has  been  already  recorded. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  stepped  into  the  veranda  and  looked 
down  upon  the  Mall,  her  forehead  puckered  with 

thought.  ? 

4  Hah !  ’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  shortly.  4  Indeed ! 

4 What  is  it?’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  sleepily. 

4  That  dowd  and  The  Dancing  Master  —  to  whom  I 

object.’ 

4  Why  to  The  Dancing  Master?  He  is  a  middle-aged 
gentleman,  of  reprobate  and  romantic  tendencies,  and 

tries  to  be  a  friend  of  mine. 

4  Then  make  up  your  mind  to  lose  him.  Dowds  cling 

by  nature,  and  I  should  imagine  that  this  animal— how 
terrible  her  bonnet  looks  from  above!— is  specially 
clingsome.’ 

4  She  is  welcome  to  The  Dancing  Master  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned.  I  never  could  take  an  interest  in  a 
monotonous  liar.  The  frustrated  aim  of  his  life  is  t® 
persuade  people  that  he  is  a  bachelor. 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


73 

4  °-°h  !  I  think  I’ve  met  that  sort  of  man  before. 
And  isn’t  he  ?  ’ 

‘No.  He  confided  that  to  me  a  few  days  ago.  Ugh  ! 
Some  men  ought  to  be  killed.’ 

‘  What  happened  then  ?  ’ 

He  posed  as  the  horror  of  horrors  —  a  misunder¬ 
stood  man.  Heaven  knows  the  femiTie  incomprise  is 
sad  enough  and  bad  enough  —  but  the  other  thing !  ’ 
And  so  fat  too  ;  I  should  have  laughed  in  his  face. 

Men  seldom  confide  in  me.  How  is  it  they  come  to 
you  ?  ’ 

4  F or  tlie  sake  of  impressing  me  with  their  careers  in 
the  past.  Protect  me  from  men  with  confidences !  ’ 

‘And  yet  you  encourage  them?’ 

‘  What  can  I  do  ?  They  talk,  I  listen,  and  they 
vow  that  I  am  sympathetic.  I  know  I  always  profess 
astonishment  even  when  the  plot  is  —  of  the  most  old 
possible.’ 

‘  Yes.  Men  are  so  unblushingly  explicit  if  they  are 
once  allowed  to  talk,  whereas  women’s  confidences  are 
full  of  reservations  and  fibs,  except - ’ 

When  they  go  mad  and  babble  of  the  Unutterabili- 
ties  after  a  week  s  acquaintance.  Really,  if  you  come 
to  consider,  we  know  a  great  deal  more  of  men  than  of 
our  own  sex.’ 

‘  And  the  extraordinary  thing  is  that  men  will  never 
believe  it.  They  say  we  are  trying  to  hide  something.’ 

They  are  generally  doing  that  on  their  own  account. 
Alas!  These  chocolates  pall  upon  me,  and  I  haven't 
eaten  more  than  a  dozen.  I  think  I  shall  go  to  sleep.’ 

Then  you  11  get  fat,  dear.  If  you  took  more  exer¬ 
cise  and  a  more  intelligent  interest  in  your  neighbours 
you  would - -  ’ 


74 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘Be  as  much  loved  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  You’re  a 
darling  in  many  ways  and  I  like  you— you  are  not  a 
woman’s  woman — but  why  do  you  trouble  yourself 

about  mere  human  beings  ?  ’ 

‘Because  in  the  absence  of  angels,  who  I  am  sure 
would  be  horribly  dull,  men  and  women  are  the  most 
fascinating  things  in  the  whole  wide  world,  lazy  one. 

I  am  interested  in  The  Dowd — I  am  interested  in  The 
Dancing  Master— I  am  interested  in  the  Hawley  Boy — 

and  I  am  interested  in  you .’ 

‘  Why  couple  me  with  the  Hawley  Boy  ?  He  is  your 

property.’ 

‘  Yes,  and  in  his  own  guileless  speech,  I  m  making  a 
good  thing  out  of  him.  When  he  is  slightly  more  re¬ 
formed,  and  has  passed  his  Higher  Standard,  or  whatever 
the  authorities  think  fit  to  exact  from  him,  I  shall  select 
a  pretty  little  girl,  the  Holt  girl,  I  think,  and  here  she 
waved  her  hands  airily  — 1 1  “  whom  Mrs.  Hauksbee  hath 
joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder.”  That’s  all.’ 

‘  And  when  you  have  yoked  May  Holt  with  the  most 
notorious  detrimental  in  Simla,  and  earned  the  undying 
hatred  of  Mamma  Holt,  what  will  you  do  with  me,  Dis* 
penser  of  the  Destinies  of  the  Universe  ?’. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  dropped  into  a  low  chair  in  front  of 
the  fire,  and,  chin  in  hand,  gazed  long  and  steadfastly 
at  Mrs.  M  alio  we. 

‘I  do  not  know,’  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  ‘ what  I 
shall  do  with  you,  dear.  It’s  obviously  impossible  to 
marry  you  to  some  one  else  —  your  husband  would 
object  and  the  experiment  might  not  be  successful 
after  all.  I  think  I  shall  begin  by  preventing  you 
from— what  is  it  ?  —  “  sleeping  on  ale-house  benches* 

and  snoring  in  the  sun.”’ 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


75 


‘Dont!  I  don’t  like  your  quotations.  They  are  so 
rude.  Go  to  the  Library  and  bring  me  new  books.’ 

4  While  you  sleep  ?  No!  If  you  don’t  come  with  me, 
I  shall  spread  your  newest  frock  on  my  ^mchshaw- bow, 
and  when  any  one  asks  me  what  I  am  doing,  I  shall  say 
that  I  am  going  to  Phelps’s  to  get  it  let  out.  I  shall 
take  care  that  Mrs.  MacNamara  sees  me.  Put  your 
things  on,  there’s  a  good  girl.’ 

Mrs.  M alio  we  groaned  and  obeyed,  and  the  two  went 
off  to  the  Library,  where  they  found  Mrs.  Delville  and 
the  man  who  went  by  the  nickname  of  The  Dancing 
Master.  By  that  time  Mrs.  Mallowe  was  awake  and 
eloquent. 

‘That  is  the  Creature!’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  with 
the  air  of  one  pointing  out  a  slug  in  the  road. 

‘No,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  ‘The man  is  the  Creature. 
Ugh!  Good-evening,  Mr.  Bent.  I  thought  you  were 
coming  to  tea  this  evening.’ 

‘Surely  it  was  for  to-morrow,  was  it  not?’  answered 
The  Dancing  Master.  ‘  I  understood  ...  I  fancied 
.  .  .  I’m  so  sorry  .  .  .  How  very  unfortunate !  ’  .  .  . 

But  Mrs.  Mallowe  had  passed  on. 

‘For  the  practised  equivocator  you  said  he  was,’ 
murmured  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  ‘  he  strikes  me  as  a  failure. 
Now  wherefore  should  he  have  preferred  a  walk  with 
The  Dowd  to  tea  with  us  ?  Elective  affinities,  I  sup¬ 
pose— both  grubby.  Polly,  I’d  never  forgive  that 
woman  as  long  as  the  world  rolls.’ 

‘  I  forgive  every  woman  everything,’  said  Mrs.  Mal¬ 
lowe.  ‘  Pie  will  be  a  sufficient  punishment  for  her. 
What  a  common  voice  she  has !  ’ 

Mrs.  Delville’s  voice  was  not  pretty,  her  carriage 
was  even  less  lovely,  and  her  raiment  was  strikingly 


76 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


neglected.  All  these  things  Mrs.  Mallowe  noticed 

over  the  top  of  a  magazine. 

4 Now  what  is  there  in  her?'  **ib  Mrs.  Hauksdee- 

4  Do  you  see  what  1  meant  about  the  clothes  falling 
off  ?  If  I  were  a  man  I  would  perish  sooner  than  be 
seen  with  that  rag-bag.  And  yet,  she  has  good  eyes, 

but  —  Oh !  ’ 

4  What  is  it  ?  ’ 

4  She  doesn’t  know  how  to  use  them!  On  my  Honour, 
she  does  not.  Look!  Oh  look!  Untidiness  I  can 
endure,  but  ignorance  never!  The  woman’s  a  fool.’ 
‘Hsh!  She’ll  hear  you.’ 

4  All  the  w<  men  in  Simla  are  fools.  She’ll  think  I 
mean  some  one  else.  Now  she  s  going  out.  What 
a  thoroughly  objectionable  couple  she  and  The  Dancing 
Master  make  !  Which  reminds  me.  Do  you  suppose 

they’ll  ever  dance  together  ?  ’ 

4  Wait  and  see.  I  don’t  envy  her  the  conversation 
of  The  Dancing  Master  —  loathly  man!  His  wife 
ought  to  be  up  here  before  long. 

4  Do  you  know  anything  about  him  ?  ’ 

4  Only  what  he  told  me.  It  may  be  all  a  fiction. 
He  married  a  girl  bred  in  the  country,  I  think,  and, 
being  an  honourable,  chivalrous  soul,  told  me  that  he 
repented  his  bargain  and  sent  her  to  her  mother  as  often 
as  possible  — a  person  who  has  lived  in  the  Doon  since 
the  memory  of  man  and  goes  to  Mussoorie  when  other 
people  go  Home.  The  wife  is  with  her  at  present.  So 

he  says.’ 

4  Babies  ?  ’ 

4  One  only,  but  he  talks  of  his  wife  in  a  revolting 
way.  I  hated  him  for  it.  He  thought  he  was  being 
epigrammatic  and  brilliant 


A  SECOND-RATE  woman 


77 


‘That  is  a  vice  peculiar  to  men.  I  dislike  him 
because  he  is  generally  in  the  wake  of  some  girl,  disap¬ 
pointing  the  Eligibles.  He  will  persecute  May  Holt 
no  more,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken.  ’ 

'No.  I  think  Mrs.  Delville  may  occupy  his  attem 
tion  for  a  while.’ 

‘  Do  you  suppose  she  knows  that  he  is  the  head  of  a 
family  ?  ’ 

‘Not  from  his  lips.  He  swore  me  to  eternal  secrecy. 
Wherefore  I  tell  you.  Don’t  you  know  that  type  of 
man  ?  ’ 

‘Not  intimately,  thank  goodness!  As  a  genera] 
rule,  when  a  man  begins  to  abuse  his  wife  to  me,  I  find 
that  the  Lord  gives  me  wherewith  to  answer  him 
according  to  his  folly  ;  and  we  part  with  a  coolness 
between  us.  I  laugh.’ 

‘I’m  different.  I’ve  no  sense  of  humour.’ 

4  Cultivate  it,  then.  It  has  been  my  mainstay  for 
more  years  than  I  care  to  think  about.  A  well-edu¬ 
cated  sense  of  Humour  will  save  a  woman  when  Relig¬ 
ion,  Training,  and  Home  influences  fail ;  aud  we  may 
all  need  salvation  sometimes.’ 

‘Do  you  suppose  that  the  Delville  woman  has 
humour  ?  ’ 

‘Her  dress  bewrays  her.  How  can  a  Thing  who 
wears  her  supplement  under  her  left  arm  have  any 
notion  of  the  fitness  of  things  —  much  less  their  folly  ? 
If  she  discards  The  Dancing  Master  after  having  once 
seen  him  dance,  I  may  respect  her.  Otherwise - ’ 

‘  But  are  we  not  both  assuming  a  great  deal  too  much, 
dear?  You  saw  the  woman  at  Peliti’s  —  half  an  hour 
later  you  saw  her  walking  with  The  Dancing  Master 
—  an  hour  later  you  met  her  here  at  the  Library.’ 


78 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘  Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  remember.’ 

4  Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  I  admit,  but  why 
on  the  strength  of  that  should  you  imagine - ’ 

4 1  imagine  nothing.  I  have  no  imagination.  I  am 
only  convinced  that  The  Dancing  Master  is  attracted 
to  The  Dowd  because  he  is  objectionable  in  every  way 
and  she  in  every  other.  If  I  know  the  man  as  you 
have  described  him,  he  holds  his  wife  in  slavery  at 
present.’ 

4  She  is  twenty  years  younger  than  he.’ 

4  Poor  wretch  !  And,  in  the  end,  after  he  has  posed 
and  swaggered  and  lied  —  he  has  a  mouth  under  that 
ragged  moustache  simply  made  for  lies  —  he  will  be 
rewarded  according  to  his  merits.’ 

4 1  wonder  what  those  really  are,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

But  Mrs.  Plauksbee,  her  face  close  to  the  shelf  of  the 
new  books,  was  humming  softly :  ‘  TV hat  shrill  he  have 
who  killed  the  Deer /’  She  was  a  lady  of  unfettered 
speech. 

One  month  later,  she  announced  her  intention  of  call¬ 
ing  upon  Mrs.  Delville.  Both  Mrs.  Hauksbee  and 
Mrs.  Mallowe  were  in  morning  wrappers,  and  there 
was  a  great  peace  in  the  land. 

4 1  should  go  as  I  was,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  ‘It 
would  be  a  delicate  compliment  to  her  style.’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  studied  herself  in  the  glass. 

4  Assuming  for  a  moment  that  she  ever  darkened 
these  doors,  I  should  put  on  this  robe,  after  all  the 
others,  to  show  her  what  a  morning  wrapper  ought  to 
be.  It  might  enliven  her.  As  it  is,  I  shall  go  in  the 
dove-coloured  —  sweet  emblem  of  youth  and  innocence 
—  and  shall  put  on  my  new  gloves.’ 

4  If  you  really  are  going,  dirty  tan  would  be  too 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


79 


good ;  and  you  know  that  dove-colour  spots  with  the 
rain.’ 

‘  I  care  not.  I  may  make  her  envious.  At  least  I 
shall  try,  though  one  cannot  expect  very  much  from  a 
woman  who  puts  a  lace  tucker  into  her  habit.’ 

4  Just  Heavens  !  When  did  she  do  that?  ’ 

‘Yesterday — ’riding  with  The  Dancing  Master.  I 
met  them  at  the  back  of  J akko,  and  the  rain  had  made 
the  lace  lie  down.  To  complete  the  effect,  she1  was 
wearing  an  unclean  terai  with  the  elastic  under  her 
chin.  I  felt  almost  too  well  content  to  take  the  trouble 
to  despise  her.’ 

‘  The  Hawley  Boy  was  riding  with  you.  What  did 
he  think  ?  ’ 

‘Does  a  boy  ever  notice  these  things?  Should  I 
like  him  if  he  did  ?  He  stared  in  the  rudest  way,  and 
just  when  I  thought  he  had  seen  the  elastic,  he  said, 
“There’s  something  very  taking  about  that  face.”  I 
rebuked  him  on  the  spot.  I  don’t  approve  of  boys 
being  taken  by  faces.’ 

‘  Other  than  your  own.  I  shouldn’t  be  in  the  least 
surprised  if  the  Hawley  Boy  immediately  went  to  call.’ 

‘  I  forbade  him.  Let  her  be  satisfied  with  The  Danc¬ 
ing  Master,  and  his  wife  when  she  comes  up.  I’m 
rather  curious  to  see  Mrs.  Bent  and  the  Delville  woman 
together.’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  departed  and,  at  the  end  of  an  hour, 
returned  slightly  flushed. 

‘  There  is  no  limit  to  the  treachery  of  youth  !  I 
ordered  the  Hawley  Boy,  as  he  valued  my  patronage, 
not  to  call.  The  first  person  I  stumble  over — literally 
stumble  over  —  in  her  poky,  dark,  little  drawing-room 
is,  of  course,  the  Hawley  Boy.  She  kept  us  waiting 


80 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


ten  minutes,  and  then  emerged  as  though  she  had  been 
tipped  out  of  the  dirty-clothes  basket.  You  know  my 
way,  dear,  when  I  am  at  all  put  out.  I  was  Superior, 
crrrrushingly  Superior  !  ’Lifted  my  eyes  to  Heaven, 
and  had  heard  of  nothing  — ’dropped  my  eyes  on  the 
carpet  and  “  really  didn’t  know  ”  —  ’played  with  my 
card-case  and  “supposed  so.”  The  Hawley  Boy  gig¬ 
gled  like  a  girl,  and  I  had  to  freeze  him  with  scowls 
between  the  sentences.’ 

4  And  she  ?  ’ 

4  She  sat  in  a  heap  on  the  edge  of  a  couch,  and  man¬ 
aged  to  convey  the  impression  that  she  was  suffering 
from  stomach-ache,  at  the  very  least.  It  was  all  I 
could  do  not  to  ask  after  her  symptoms.  When  I  rose, 
she  grunted  just  like  a  buffalo  in  the  water  —  too  lazy 
to  move.’ 

4  Are  you  certain? - ’ 

4  Am  I  blind,  Polly  ?  Laziness,  sheer  laziness,  noth¬ 
ing  else  —  or  her  garments  were  only  constructed  for 
sitting  down  in.  I  stayed  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
trying  to  penetrate  the  gloom,  to  guess  what  her  sur¬ 
roundings  were  like,  while  she  stuck  out  her  tongue. 

4  Lu — cy  !  ’ 

t  Well  — I’ll  withdraw  the  tongue,  though  I’m  sure  if 
she  didn’t  do  it  when  I  was  in  the  room,  she  did  the 
minute  I  was  outside.  At  any  rate,  she  lay  in  a  lump 
and  grunted.  Ask  the  Hawley  Bey,  dear.  I  believe 
the  grunts  were  meant  for  sentences,  but  she  spoke  so 
indistinctly  that  I  can’t  swear  to  it.’ 

4  You  are  incorrigible,  simply.’ 

4 1  am  not!  Treat  me  civilly,  give  me  peace  with 
honour,  don’t  put  the  only  available  seat  facing  the 
window,  and  a  child  may  eat  ym  in  my  lap  before 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


81 


Church.  But  I  resent  being  grunted  at.  Wouldn’t 
you  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  she  communicates  her 
views  on  life  and  love  to  The  Dancing  Master  in  a  set 
of  modulated  “  Grmphs  ?  ”  ’ 

‘You  attach  too  much  importance  to  The  Dancing 
Master.’ 

‘  He  came  as  we  went,  and  The  Dowd  grew  almost 
cordial  at  the  sight  of  him.  He  smiled  greasily,  and 
moved  about  that  darkened  dog-kennel  in  a  suspiciously 
familiar  way.’ 

*  ‘  Don’t  be  uncharitable.  Any  sin  but  that  I’ll  for¬ 
give.’ 

‘  Listen  to  the  voice  of  History.  I  am  only  describ¬ 
ing  what  I  saw.  He  entered,  the  heap  on  the  sofa 
revived  slightly,  and  the  Hawley  Boy  and  I  came 
away  together.  He  is  disillusioned,  but  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  lecture  him  severely  for  going  there.  And 
that’s  all.’ 

‘Now  for  Pity’s  sake  leave  the  wretched  creature  and 
The  Dancing  Master  alone.  They  never  did  you  any 
harm.’ 

‘  No  harm  ?  To  dress  as  an  example  and  a  stumbling- 
block  for  half  Simla,  and  then  to  find  this  Person  who 
is  dressed  by  the  hand  of  God  —  not  that  I  wish  to 
disparage  Him  for  a  moment,  but  you  know  the  tikka 
dhurzie  way  He  attires  those  lilies  of  the  field  —  this 
Person  draws  the  eyes  of  men  —  and  some  of  them  nice 
men  ?  It’s  almost  enough  to  make  one  discard  clothing. 

T  told  the  Hawley  Boy  so.’ 

‘  And  what  did  that  sweet  youth  do  ?  ’ 

‘Turned  shell-pink  and  looked  across  the  far  blue 
hills  like  a  distressed  cherub.  Am  I  talking  wildly, 
Polly?  Let  me  say  my  say,  and  I  shall  be  calm.  Other- 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


82 

wise  I  may  go  abroad  and  disturb  Simla  with  a  tew 
original  reflections.  Excepting  always  your  own  sweet 
self,  there  isn’t  a  single  woman  in  the  land  who  under¬ 
stands  me  when  I  am  —  what’s  the  word? 

‘  Tete-felee ,’  suggested  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

‘Exactly!  And  now  let  us  have  tiffin.  The  de¬ 
mands  of  Society  are  exhausting,  and  as  Mrs.  Delville 

sayS _ ’  Here  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  to  the  horror  of  the 

khitmatgars,  lapsed  into  a  series  of  grunts,  while  Mrs. 

Mallowe  stared  in  lazy  surprise. 

‘  “  God  gie  us  a  gude  conceit  of  oorselves,”  ’  said  Mrs- 
Hauksbee  piously,  returning  to  her  natural  speech. 

‘  Now,  in  any  other  woman  that  would  have  been  vul¬ 
gar.  I  am  consumed  with  curiosity  to  see  Mrs.  Bent. 

I  expect  complications.’ 

‘  Woman  of  one  idea,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  shortly ; 

‘  all  complications  are  as  old  as  the  hills  !  I  have  lived 

through  or  near  all  —  all  —  all  !  ’ 

‘And  yet  do  not  understand  that  men  and  women 
never  behave  twice  alike.  I  am  old  who  was  young 
if  ever  I  put  my  head  in  your  lap,  you  dear,  big  sceptic, 
you  will  learn  that  my  parting  is  gauze  but  never, 
no  never,  have  I  lost  my  interest  in  men  and  women. 
Polly,  I  shall  see  this  business  out  to  the  bitter  end.’ 

‘I  am  going  to  sleep,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  calmly. 

‘  I  never  interfere  with  men  or  women  unless  I  am 
compelled,’  and  she  retired  with  dignity  to  her  own 
room. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee’s  curiosity  was  not  long  left  ungrati¬ 
fied,  for  Mrs.  Bent  came  up  to  Simla  a  few  days  after 
the  conversation  faithfully  repbrted  above,  and  pervaded 
the  Mall  by  her  husband’s  side. 

‘  Behold  !  ’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  thoughtfully  rubbing 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


83 


her  nose.  ‘That  is  the  last  link  of  the  chain,  if  we 
omit  the  husband,  of  the  Delville,  whoever  he  may  be. 
Let  me  consider.  The  Bents  and  the  Delvilles  inhabit 
the  same  hotel ;  and  the  Delville  is  detested  by  the 
Waddy  —  do  you  know  the  Waddy?  —  who  is  almost 
as  big  a  dowd.  The  Waddy  also  abominates  the  male 
Bent,  for  which,  if  her  other  sins  do  not  weigh  too 
heavily,  she  will  eventually  go  to.  Heaven.’ 

‘Don’t  be  irreverent,’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  ‘  I  like  Mrs. 
Bent’s  face.’ 

‘ 1  am  discussing  the  Waddy,’  returned  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee  loftily.  ‘The  Waddy  will  take  the  female  Bent 
apart,  after  having  borrowed  —  yes!  — everything  that 
she  can,  from  hairpins  to  babies’  bottles.  Such,  my 
dear,  is  life  in  a  hotel.  The  Waddy  will  tell  the  female 

Bent  facts  and  fictions  about  The  Dancing  Master  and 
The  Dowd.’ 

‘  Lucy,  I  should  like  you  better  if  you  were  not 
always  looking  into  people’s  back-bedrooms.’ 

‘  Anybody  can  look  into  their  front  drawing-rooms  ; 
and  remember  whatever  I  do,  and  whatever  I  look,  I 
never  talk  —  as  the  Waddy  will.  Let  us  hope  that 
The  Dancing  Master’s  greasy  smile  and  manner  of 
the  pedagogue  will  soften  the  heart  of  that  cow,  his 
wife.  If  mouths  speak  truth,  I  should  think  that 
little  Mrs.  Bent  could  get  very  angry  on  occasion.’ 

‘  But  what  reason  has  she  for  being  angry  ?  ’ 

‘What  reason!  The  Dancing  Master  in  himself  is 
a  reason.  How  does  it  go?  “If  in  his  life  some 
trivial  errors  fall,  Look  in  his  face  and  you’ll  believe 
them  all.”  I  am  prepared  to  credit  any  evil  of  The 
Dancing  Master,  because  I  hate  him  so.  And  The 
Dowd  is  so  disgustingly  badly  dressed - ’ 


84 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4  That  she,  too,  is  capable  of  every  iniquity  ?  1 

always  prefer  to  believe  the  best  of  everybody.  It 
saves  so  much  trouble.’ 

4  Very  good.  I  prefer  to  believe  the  worst.  It  saves 
useless  expenditure  of  sympathy.  And  you  may  be 
quite  certain  that  the  Waddy  believes  with  me.’ 

Mrs.  Mallowe  sighed  and  made  no  answer. 

The  conversation  was  holden  after  dinner  while  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  was  dressing  for  a  dance. 

4 1  am  too  tired  to  go,’  pleaded  Mrs.  Mallowe,  and 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  left  her  in  peace  till  two  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  when  she  was  aware  of  emphatic  knocking  at  her 
door. 

4  Don’t  be  very  angry,  dear,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

4  My  idiot  of  an  ayah  has  gone  home,  and,  as  I  hope 
to  sleep  to-night,  there  isn’t  a  soul  in  the  place  to 
unlace  me.’ 

4  Oh,  this  is  too  bad!  ’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  sulkily. 

*  ’Can’t  help  it.  I’m  a  lone,  lorn  grass-widow,  dear, 
but  I  will  not  sleep  in  my  stays.  And  such  news  too! 
Oh,  do  unlace  me,  there’s  a  darling!  The  Dowd  —  The 
Dancing  Master  —  I  and  the  Hawley  Boy  —  You  know 
the  N  orth  veranda  ?  ’ 

4  How  can  I  do  anything  if  you  spin  round  like 
this  ?  ’  protested  Mrs.  Mallowe,  fumbling  with  the  knot 
of  the  laces. 

4  Oh,  I  forget.  I  must  tell  my  tale  without  the  aid 
of  your  eyes.  Do  you  know  you’ve  lovely  eyes,  dear  ? 
Well,  to  begin  with,  I  took  the  Hawley  Boy  to  a  kala 
juggalid 

4  Did  he  want  much  taking  ?  ’ 

4  Lots!  There  was  an  arrangement  of  loose-boxes  in 
lanats ,  and  she  was  in  the  next  one  talking  to  him.’ 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


85 


'Which?  How?  Explain.’ 

‘You  know  what  I  mean  —  The  Dowd  and  The 
Dancing  Master.  We  could  hear  every  word,  and 
we  listened  shamelessly  —  ’specially  the  Hawley  Boy. 
Polly,  I  quite  love  that  woman!’ 

‘This  is  interesting.  There!  Now  turn  round. 
What  happened  ?  ’ 

‘One  moment.  Ah — h!  Blessed  relief.  I’ve  been 
looking  forward  to  taking  them  off  for  the  last  half- 
hour —  which  is  ominous  at  my  time  of  life.  But,  as 
I  was  saying,  we  listened  and  heard  The  Dowd  drawl 
worse  than  ever.  She  drops  her  final  g’s  like  a  barmaid 
or  a  blue-blooded  Aide-de-Camp.  “Look  he-ere,  you’re 
gettin’  too  fond  o’  me,”  she  said,  and  The  Dancing 
Master  owned  it  was  so  in  language  that  nearly  made 
me  ill.  The  Dowd  reflected  for  a  while.  Then  we 
heard  her  say,  “Look  he-ere,  Mister  Bent,  why  are 
you  such  an  aw-ful  liar  ?  ”  I  nearly  exploded  while 
The  Dancing  Master  denied  the  charge.  It  seems  that 
he  never  told  her  he  was  a  married  man.’ 

‘  I  said  he  wouldn’t.’ 

‘  And  she  had  taken  this  to  heart,  on  personal 
grounds,  I  suppose.  She  drawled  along  for  five  min¬ 
utes,  reproaching  him  with  his  perfidy  and  grew  quite 
motherly.  “Now  you’ve  got  a  nice  little  wife  of  your 
own  —  you  have,”  she  said.  “  She’s  ten  times  too  good 
for  a  fat  old  man  like  you,  and,  look  he-ere,  you  never 
told  me  a  word  about  her,  and  I’ve  been  thinkin’  about 
it  a  good  deal,  and  I  think  you’re  a  liar.”  Wasn’t  that 
delicious  ?  The  Dancing  Master  maundered  and  raved 
till  the  Hawley  Boy  suggested  that  he  should  burst  in 
and  beat  him.  His  voice  runs  up  into  an  impassioned 
squeak  when  he  is  afraid.  The  Dowd  must  be  an  ex- 


86 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


traordinary  woman.  She  explained  that  had  he  bee?  ft 
bachelor  she  might  not  have  objected  to  his  devotio  i; 
but  since  he  was  a  married  man  and  the  father  of  a  ve  ry 
nice  baby,  she  considered  him  a  hypocrite,  and  this  she 
repeated  twice.  She  wound  up  her  drawl  with:  “An’ 
I’m  tellin’  you  this  because  your  wife  is  angry  with  me, 
an’  I  hate  quarrellin’  with  any  other  woman,  an  I  like 
your  wife.  You  know  how  you  have  behaved  for  the 
last  six  weeks.  You  shouldn’t  have  done  it,  indeed  you 
shouldn’t.  You’re  too  old  an’  too  fat.”  Can’t  you 
imagine  how  The  Dancing  Master  would  wince  at  that! 

“  Now  go  away,”  she  said.  “  I  don’t  want  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  you,  because  I  think  you  are  not  nice. 
I’ll  stay  he-ere  till  the  next  dance  begins.”  Did  you 
think  that  the  creature  had  so  much  in  her  ?  ’ 

4 1  never  studied  her  as  closely  as  you  did.  It  sounds 

unnatural.  What  happened? 

4  The  Dancing  Master  attempted  blandishment,  re¬ 
proof,  jocularity,  and  the  style  of  the  Lord  High  War¬ 
den,  and  I  had  almost  to  pinch  the  Hawley  Boy  to  make 
him  keep  quiet.  She  grunted  at  the  end  of  each  sen¬ 
tence  and,  in  the  end,  he  went  away  swearing  to  himself, 
quite  like  a  man  in  a  novel.  He  looked  more  objec¬ 
tionable  than  ever.  I  laughed.  I  love  that  woman  — 
in  spite  of  her  clothes.  And  now  I’m  going  to  bed. 
What  do  you  think  of  it?  ’ 

‘  I  shan’t  begin  to  think  till  the  morning,’  said  Mrs. 
Mallowe  yawning.  ‘Perhaps  she  spoke  the  truth.  They 
do  fly  into  it  by  accident  sometimes.’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee’s  account  of  her  eavesdropping  was 
an  ornate  one  but  truthful  in  the  maim  For  reasons 
best  known  to  herself,  Mrs.  ‘Shady’  Delville  had  turned 
upon  Mr.  Bent  and  rent  him  limb  from  limb,  casting  him 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


87 

away  limp  and  disconcerted  ere  she  withdrew  the  light 
of  her  eyes  from  him  permanently.  Being  a  man  of 
resource,  and  anything  but  pleased  in  that  he  had  been 
called  both  old  and  fat,  he  gave  Mrs.  Bent  to  under¬ 
stand  that  he  had,  during  her  absence  in  the  Boon,  been 
the  victim  of  unceasing  persecution  at  the  hands  of  Mrs. 
Delville,  and  he  told  the  tale  so  often  and  with  such 
eloquence  that  he  ended  in  believing  it,  while  his  wife 
mar\ elled  at  the  manners  and  customs  of  4 some  women.* 
When  the  situation  showed  signs  of  languishing,  Mrs. 
Waddy  was  always  on  hand  to  wake  the  smouldering 
fires  of  suspicion  in  Mrs.  Bent’s  bosom  and  to  contribute 
generally  to  the  peace  and  comfort  of  the  hotel.  Mr. 
Bent’s  life  was  not  a  happy  one,  for  if  Mrs.  Waddy’s 
stoiy  were  true,  he  was,  argued  his  wife,  untrustworthy 
to  the  last  degree.  If  his  own  statement  was  true,  his 
charms  of  manner  and  conversation  were  so  great  that 
he  needed  constant  surveillance.  And  he  received  it, 
till  he  repented  genuinely  of  his  marriage  and  neglected 
his  personal  appearance.  Mrs.  Delville  alone  in  the 
hotel  was  unchanged.  She  removed  her  chair  some  six 
paces  towards  the  head  of  the  table,  and  occasionally  in 
the  twilight  ventured  on  timid  overtures  of  friendship 
to  Mrs.  Bent,  which  were  repulsed. 

4  She  does  it  for  my  sake,’  hinted  the  virtuous  Bent. 

4  A  dangerous  and  designing  woman,’  purred  Mrs. 
Waddy. 

Worst  of  all,  every  other  hotel  in  Simla  was  full ! 

********* 

4  Polly,  are  you  afraid  of  diphtheria?  ’ 

‘  nothing  in  the  world  except  smallpox.  Diph¬ 
theria  kills,  but  it  doesn’t  disfigure.  Why  do  you  ask? ' 

4  Because  the  Bent  baby  has  got  it,  and  the  whole 


88 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


hotel  is  upside  down  in  consequence.  The  W addy  has 
u set  her  five  young  on  the  rail”  and  fled.  Hie  Danc¬ 
ing  Master  fears  for  his  precious  throat,  and  that  miser¬ 
able  little  woman,  his  wife,  has  no  notion  of  what  ought 
to  be  done.  She  wanted  to  put  it  into  a  mustard  bath 
—  for  croup  !  ’ 

4  Where  did  you  learn  all  this  ?  ’ 

i  Just  now,  on  the  Mall.  Dr.  Howlen  told  me.  The 
Manager  of  the  hotel  is  abusing  the  Bents,  and  the 
Bents  are  abusing  the  manager.  They  are  a  feckless 
couple.’ 

‘  Well.  What’s  on  your  mind?  ’ 

‘  This ;  and  I  know  it’s  a  grave  thing  to  ask.  W ould 
you  seriously  object  to  my  bringing  the  child  over  here, 
with  its  mother  ?  * 

4  On  the  most  strict  understanding  that  we  see  noth¬ 
ing  of  The  Dancing  Master.’ 

‘He  will  be  only  too  glad  to  stay  away.  Polly, 
you’re  an  angel.  The  woman  really  is  at  her  wits’ 

end.’ 

‘And  you  know  nothing  about  her,  careless,  and 
would  hold  her  up  to  public  scorn  if  it  gave  you  a 
minute’s  amusement.  Therefore  you  risk  your  life  for 
the  sake  of  her  brat.  No,  Loo,  Tm  not  the  angel.  I 
shall  keep  to  my  rooms  and  avoid  her.  But  do  as  you 
please  —  only  tell  me  why  you  do  it.’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee’s  eyes  softened ;  she  looked  out  uf 
the  window  and  back  into  Mrs.  Mallowe  s  face. 

‘I  don’t  know,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  simply. 

‘  You  dear  !  ’ 

‘Polly !— and  for  aught  you  knew  you  might  have 
taken  my  fringe  off.  Never  do  that  again  without 
warning.  Now  we’ll  get  the  rooms  ready.  I  don  * 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


89 


suppose  I  shall  be  allowed  to  circulate  in  society  for  a 
month.’ 

4  And  I  also.  Thank  goodness  I  shall  at  last  get  all 
the  sleep  I  want.’ 

Much  to  Mrs.  Bent’s  surprise  she  and  the  baby  were 
brought  over  to  the  house  almost  before  she  knew  where 
fche  was.  Bent  was  devoutly  and  undisguisedly  thank 
ful,  for  he  was  afraid  of  the  infection,  and  also  hoped 
that  a  few  weeks  in  the  hotel  alone  with  Mrs.  Delville 
might  lead  to  explanations.  Mrs.  Bent  had  thrown 
her  jealousy  to  the  winds  in  her  fear  for  her  child’s 
life. 

‘We  can  give  you  good  milk,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to 
her,  ‘  and  our  house  is  much  nearer  to  the  Doctor’s  than 
the  hotel,  and  you  won’t  feel  as  though  you  were  living 
in  a  hostile  camp.  Where  is  the  dear  Mrs.  Waddy  ? 
She  seemed  to  be  a  particular  friend  of  yours.’ 

‘They’ve  all  left  me,’  said  Mrs.  Bent  bitterly.  ‘Mrs. 
Waddy  went  first.  She  said  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
myself  for  introducing  diseases  there,  and  I  am  sure  it 
wasn’t  my  fault  that  little  Dora - ’ 

‘  How  nice  !  ’  cooed  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  ‘  The  Waddy 
is  an  infectious  disease  herself  —  “  more  quickly  caught 
than  the  plague  and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad.”  I 
lived  next  door  to  her  at  the  Elysium,  three  years  ago. 
Now  see,  you  won’t  give  us  the  least  trouble,  and  I’ve 
ornamented  all  the  house  with  sheets  soaked  in  carbolic. 
It  smells  comforting,  doesn’t  it  ?  Remember  I’m  always 
in  call,  and  my  ayah's  at  your  service  when  yours  goes 

to  her  meals  and  —  and  —  if  you  cry  I’ll  never  forgive 
you.’ 

.  Dora  Bent  occupied  her  mother’s  unprofitable  atten¬ 
tion  through  the  day  and  the  night.  The  Doctor 


90 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


called  thrice  in  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  the  house 
reeked  with  the  smell  of  the  Condy’s  Fluid,  chlorine- 
water,  and  carbolic  acid  washes.  Mrs.  Mallowe  kept 
to  her  own  rooms  —  she  considered  that  she  had  made 
sufficient  concessions  in  the  cause  of  humanity  —  and 
M rs.  Hauksbee  was  more  esteemed  by  the  Doctor  as  a 
b  alp  in  the  sick-room  than  the  half-distraught  mother. 

4 1  know  nothing  of  illness,’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to 
the  Doctor.  ‘  Only  tell  me  what  to  do,  and  I’ll  do  it.’ 

4  Keep  that  crazy  woman  from  kissing  the  child,  and 
let  her  have  as  little  to  do  with  the  nursing  as  you  pos¬ 
sibly  can,’  said  the  Doctor  ;  4  I’d  turn  her  out  of  the 
sick-room,  but  that  I  honestly  believe  she’d  die  of  anx* 
iety.  She  is  less  than  no  good,  and  I  depend  on  you 
and  the  ayahs ,  remember.’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  accepted  the  responsibility,  though  it 
painted  olive  IioIIoavs  under  her  eyes  and  forced  her  to 
her  oldest  dresses.  Mrs.  Bent  clung  to  her  with  more 
than  childlike  faith. 

4 1  know  you’ll  make  Dora  well,  won’t  you  ?  ’  she 
said  at  least  twenty  times  a  day ;  and  twenty  times  a 
day  Mrs.  Hauksbee  answered  valiantly,  4  Of  course  I 
will.’ 

But  Dora  did  not  improve,  and  the  Doctor  seemed  to 
be  always  in  the  house. 

‘There’s  some  danger  of  the  thing  taking  a  bad  turn,’ 
he  said ;  4  I’ll  come  over  between  three  and  four  in  the 
morning  to-morrow.’ 

4  Good  gracious  !  ’  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  4  He  never 
told  me  what  the  turn  would  be  !  My  education  has 
been  horribly  neglected ;  and  I  have  only  this  foolish 
mother-woman  to  fall  back  upon.’ 

The  night  wore  through  slowly,  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


91 

dozed  in  a  chair  by  the  fire.  There  was  a  dance  at  the 
Viceregal  Lodge,  and  she  dreamed  of  it  till  she  was 
aware  of  Mrs.  Bent’s  anxious  eyes  staring  into  her  own. 

‘Wake  up  I  Wake  up!  Do  something  !’  cried  Mrs. 
Bent  piteously.  ‘  Dora’s  choking  to  death  !  Do  you 
mean  to  let  her  die  ?  ’ 

Mis.  Hauksbee  jumped  to  her  feet  and  bent  over  the 
bed.  The  child  was  fighting  for  breath,  while  the 
mother  wrung  her  hands  despairing. 

4  Oh,  what  can  I  do  ?  What  can  you  do  ?  She 
won’t  stay  still !  I  can’t  hold  her.  Why  didn’t  the 
Doctor  say  this  was  coming?’  screamed  Mrs.  Bent. 

4  Won't  you  help  me  ?  She’s  dying  !  5 

I  1  never  seen  a  child  die  before  !  ’  stammered 
Mis.  Hauksbee  feebly,  and  then  —  let  none  blame  her 
weakness  after  the  strain  of  long  watching  —  she  broke 
down,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The 
ayalis  on  the  threshold  snored  peacefully. 

There  was  a  rattle  of  ’ rickshaw  wheels  below,  the 
clash  of  an  opening  door,  a  heavy  step  on  the  stairs, 
and  Mrs.  Delville  entered  to  find  Mrs.  Bent  screaming 
for  the  Doctor  as  she  ran  round  the  room.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee,  her  hands  to  her  ears,  and  her  face  buried 
in  the  chintz  of  a  chair,  was  quivering  with  pain  at 
each  cry  from  the  bed,  and  murmuring,  4  Thank  God, 

I  iie^  ei  bore  a  child !  Oh  !  thank  God,  I  never  bore 
a  child !  ’ 

Mrs.  Delville  looked  at  the  bed  for  an  instant,  took 
Mrs.  Bent  by  the  shoulders,  and  said  quietly,  4  Get  me 
some  caustic.  Be  quick.’ 

The  mother  obeyed  mechanically.  Mrs.  Delville 
had  thrown  herself  down  by  the  side  of  the  child  and 
was  opening  its  mouth. 


92 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘  Oh,  you’re  killing  her  !  ’  cried  Mrs.  Bent.  4  Where  s 

the  Doctor  ?  Leave  her  alone  !  ’ 

Mrs.  Delville  made  no  reply  for  a  minute,  but 

busied  herself  with  the  child. 

‘Now  the  caustic,  and  hold  a  lamp  behind  my 
shoulder.  Will  you  do  as  you  are  told?  The  acid- 
bottle,  if  you  don’t  know  what  I  mean,  she  said. 

A  second  time  Mrs.  Delville  bent  over  the  child. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  her  face  still  hidden,  sobbed  and 
shivered.  One  of  the  ayahs  staggered  sleepily  into 
the  room,  yawning  :  ‘ Doctor  Sahib  come. 

Mrs.  Delville  turned  her  head. 

‘  You’re  only  just  in  time,’  she  said.  4  It  was  chokin 

her  when  I  came  an’  I’ve  burnt  it. 

‘  There  was  no  sign  of  the  membrane  getting  to  the 
air-passages  after  the  last  steaming.  It  was  the  gen¬ 
eral  weakness,  I  feared,’  said  the  Doctor  half  to  himself, 
and  he  whispered  as  he  looked,  4  You’ve  done  what  1 
should  have  been  afraid  to  do  without  consultation. 

‘  She  was  dyin’,’  said  Mrs.  Delville,  under  her  breath. 

‘  Can  you  do  anythin’  ?  What  a  mercy  it  was  I  went 
to  the  dance  !  ’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  raised  her  head. 

‘  Is  it  all  over  ?  ’  she  gasped.  ‘  I’m  useless  —  I’m 
worse  than  useless  !  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

She  stared  at  Mrs.  Delville,  and  Mrs.  Bent,  realis¬ 
ing  for  the  first  time  who  was  the  Goddess  from  the 
Machine,  stared  also. 

Then  Mrs.  Delville  made  explanation,  putting  on  a 
dirty  long  glove  and  smoothing  a  crumpled  and  ill- 
fitting  ball-dress. 

‘  I  was  at  the  dance,  an’  the  Doctor  was  tellin’  me 
about  your  baby  bein’  so  ill.  So  I  came  away  eaily, 
%n’  your  door  was  open,  an’  I — I — lost  my  boy  this 


A  SECOND-RATE  WOMAN 


93 


way  six  months  ago,  an’  I’ve  been  tryin’  to  forget  it 
ever  since,  an’  I  —  I  —  I  am  very  sorry  for  intrudin’ 
an’  anythin’  that  has  happened.’ 

Mrs.  Bent  was  putting  out  the  Doctor’s  eye  with  a 
lamp  as  he  stooped  over  Dora. 

4  Take  it  away,’  said  the  Doctor.  ‘  I  think  the  child 
will  do,  thanks  to  you,  Mrs.  Delville.  I  should  have 
come  too  late,  but,  I  assure  you’ — he  was  addressing 
himself  to  Mrs.  Delville— ‘I  had  not  the  faintest 
reason  to  expect  this.  The  membrane  must  have  grown 
like  a  mushroom.  Will  one  of  you  help  me,  please  ?  ’ 

He  had  reason  for  the  last  sentence.  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
had  thrown  herself  into  Mrs.  Delville’s  arms,  where  she 
was  weeping  bitterly,  and  Mrs.  Bent  was  unpicturesquely 
mixed  up  with  both,  while  from  the  tangle  came  the 
sound  of  many  sobs  and  much  promiscuous  kissing. 

‘  Hood  gracious !  I’ve  spoilt  all  your  beautiful  roses ! 
said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  lifting  her  head  from  the  lump  of 
crushed  gum  and  calico  atrocities  on  Mrs.  Delville’s 
shoulder  and  hurrying  to  the  Doctor. 

Mrs.  Delville  picked  up  her  shawl,  and  slouched  out 
of  the  room,  mopping  her  eyes  with  the  glove  that  she 
had  not  put  on. 

‘I  always  said  she  was  more  than  a  woman,’  sobbed 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  hysterically,  ‘and  that  proves  it!  ’ 
********* 

Six  weeks  later,  Mrs.  Bent  and  Dora  had  returned 
to  the  hotel.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  come  out  of  the 
Valley  of  Humiliation,  had  ceased  to  reproach  herself 
for  her  collapse  in  an  hour  of  need,  and  was  even 
beginning  to  direct  the  affairs  of  the  world  as  before. 

‘So  nobody  died,  and  everything  went  off  as  it 
should,  and  I  kissed  The  Dowd,  Polly.  I  feel  so  old. 
Does  it  show  in  my  face  ?  * 


94 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘Kisses  don’t  as  a  rule,  do  they?  Of  course  you 
know  what  the  result  of  The  Dowd’s  providential 
arrival  has  been.’ 

‘  They  ought  to  build  her  a  statue  —  only  no  sculptor 
dare  copy  those  skirts.’ 

‘Ah!’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe  quietly.  ‘She  has  found 
another  reward.  The  Dancing  Master  has  been  smirks 
ing  through  Simla,  giving  every  one  to  understand  that 
she  came  because  of  her  undying  love  for  him — for  him  —  ■ 
to  save  his  child,  and  all  Simla  naturally  believes  this. 

‘But  Mrs.  Bent - ’ 

‘  Mrs.  Bent  believes  it  more  than  any  one  else.  She 
won’t  speak  to  The  Dowd  now.  Isn’t  The  Dancing 
Master  an  angel  ?  ’ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  lifted  up  her  voice  and  raged  till 
bedtime.  The  doors  of  the  two  rooms  stood  open. 

‘  Polly,’  said  a  voice  from  the  darkness,  ‘  what  did 
that  American-heiress-globe-trotter  girl  say  last  season 
when  she  was  tipped  out  of  her  ’ rickshaw  turning  a 
corner?  Some  absurd  adjective  that  made  the  man 
who  picked  her  up  explode.’ 

‘  “  Paltry,”  ’  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  ‘  Through  her  nose 
— like  this  —  “  Ha-ow  pahltry  !  ”  ’ 

‘  Exactly,’  said  the  voice.  ‘  Ha-ow  pahltry  it  all  is !  ’ 

‘  Which  ?  ’ 

‘  Everything.  Babies,  Diphtheria,  Mrs.  Bent  and 
The  Dancing  Master,  I  whooping  in  a  chair,  and  The 
Dowd  dropping  in  from  the  clouds.  I  wonder  what 
the  motive  was  —  all  the  motives.’ 

‘  Urn !  ’ 

‘  What  do  you  think  ?  ’ 

4  Don’t  ask  me.  Go  to  sleep°’ 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


.  .  .  Not  only  to  enforce  by  command  but  to  encourage  by  example 
the  energetic  discharge  of  duty  and  the  steady  endurance  of  the  diffi¬ 
culties  and  privations  inseparable  from  Military  Service.  —  Bengal 
Army  Begnlations. 

They  made  Bobby  Wick  pass  an  examination  at 
Sandhurst.  He  was  a  gentleman  before  he  was  ga¬ 
zetted,  so,  when  the  Empress  announced  that  4  Gentle¬ 
man-Cadet  Robert  Hanna  Wick’  was  posted  as  Second 
Lieutenant  to  the  Tyneside  Tail  Twisters  at  Krab 
Bokhar,  he  became  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  which 
is  an  enviable  thing  ;  and  there  was  joy  in  the  house 
of  Wick  where  Mamma  Wick  and  all  the  little  Wicks 
fell  upon  their  knees  and  offered  incense  to  Bobby  by 
virtue  of  his  achievements. 

Papa  Wick  had  been  a  Commissioner  in  his  day, 
holding  authority  over  three  millions  of  men  in  the 
Chota-Buldana  Division,  building  great  works  for  the 
good  of  the  land,  and  doing  his  best  to  make  two  blades 
of  grass  grow  where  there  was  but  one  before.  Of 
course,  nobody  knew  anything  about  this  in  the  little 
English  village  where  he  was  just  4  old  Mr.  Wick  ’  and 
had  forgotten  that  he  was  a  Companion  of  the  Order 
of  the  Star  of  India. 

t 

He  patted  Bobby  on  the  shoulder  and  said:  ‘Well 
done,  my  boy  !  ’ 

There  followed,  while  the  uniform  was  being  pre¬ 
pared,  an  interval  of  pure  delight,  during  which  Bobby 

95 


96 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


took  brevet-rank  as  a  ‘  man  ’  at  the  women-swamped 
tennis-parties  and  tea-fights  of  the  village,  and,  I  dare¬ 
say,  had  his  joining- time  been  extended,  would  have 
fallen  in  love  with  several  girls  at  once.  Little  country 
villages  at  Home  are  very  full  of  nice  girls,  because  all 
the  young  men  come  out  to  India  to  make  their  fortunes. 

‘India,’  said  Papa  Wick,  ‘is  the  place.  I’ve  had 
thirty  years  of  it  and,  begad,  I’d  like  to  go  back  again. 
When  you  join  the  Tail  Twisters  you’ll  be  among 
friends,  if  every  one  hasn’t  forgotten  Wick  of  Chota- 
Buldana,  and  a  lot  of  people  will  be  kind  to  you  for  oui 
sakes.  The  mother  will  tell  you  more  about  outfit  than 
I  can ,  but  remember  this.  Stick  to  your  Regiment, 
Bobby  —  stick  to  your  Regiment.  You’ll  see  men  all 
round  you  going  into  the  Staff  Corps,  and  doing  every 
possible  sort  of  duty  but  regimental,  and  you  may  be 
tempted  to  follow  suit.  Now  so  long  as  you  keep 
within  your  allowance,  and  I  haven’t  stinted  you  there, 
stick  to  the  Line,  the  whole  Line  and  nothing  but  the 
Line.  Be  careful  how  you  back  another  young  fool’s 
bill,  and  if  you  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  twenty  years 
older  than  yourself,  don’t  tell  me  about  it,  that’s  all. 

With  these  counsels,  and  many  others  equally  valu. 
able,  did  Papa  Wick  fortify  Bobby  ere  that  last  awfu / 
night  at  Portsmouth  when  the  Officers’  Quarters  held 
more  inmates  than  were  provided  for  by  the  Regula¬ 
tions,  and  the  liberty-men  of  the  ships  fell  foul  of  the 
drafts  for  India,  and  the  battle  raged  from  the  Dockyard 
Gates  even  to  the  slums  of  Longport,  while  the  drabs 
of  Fratton  came  down  and  scratched  the  faces  of  the 
Queen’s  Officers. 

Bobby  Wick,  with  an  ugly  bruise  on  his  freckled 
nose,  a  sick  and  shaky  detachment  to  manoeuvre  inship 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


97 


and  the  comfort  of  fifty  scornful  females  to  attend  to, 
had  no  time  to  feel  homesick  till  the  Malabar  reached 
mid-Channel,  when  he  doubled  his  emotions  with  a  little 
guard- visiting  and  a  great  many  other  matters. 

The  Tail  Twisters  were  a  most  particular  Regiment. 
Those  who  knew  them  least  said  that  they  were  eaten 
up  with  4  side.’  But  their  reserve  and  their  internal 
arrangements  generally  were  merely  protective  diplo¬ 
macy.  Some  five  years  before,  the  Colonel  command¬ 
ing  had  looked  into  the  fourteen  fearless  eyes  of  seven 
plump  and  juicy  subalterns  who  had  all'  applied  to  enter 
die  Staff  Corps,  and  had  asked  them  why  the  three 
stars  should  he,  a  colonel  of  the  Line,  command  a  dashed 
nursery  for  double-dashed  bottle-suckers  who  put  on 
condemned  tin  spurs  and  rode  qualified  mokes  at  the 
hiatused  heads  of  forsaken  Black  Regiments.  He  was 
a  rude  man  and  a  terrible.  Wherefore  the  remnant 
took  measures  [with  the  half-butt  as  an  engine  of  pub¬ 
lic  opinion]  till  the  rumour  went  abroad  that  young 
men  who  used  the  Tail  Twisters  as  a  crutch  to  the 
Staff  Corps,  had  many  and  varied  trials  to  endure. 
However,  a  regiment  had  just  as  much  right  to  its  own 
secrets  as  a  woman. 

When  Bobby  came  up  from  Deolali  and  took  his 
place  among  the  Tail  Twisters,  it  was  gently  but  firmly 
borne  in  upon  him  that  the  Regiment  was  his  father  and 
his  mother  and  his  indissolubly  wedded  wife,  and  that 
there  was  no  crime  under  the  canopy  of  heaven  blacker 
than  that  of  bringing  shame  on  the  Regiment,  which 
was  the  best-shooting,  best-drilled,  best  set-up,  bravest, 
most  illustrious,  and  in  all  respects  most  desirable  Regi¬ 
ment  within  the  compass  of  the  Seven  Seas.  He  was 
taught  the  legends  of  the  Mess  Plate,  from  the  great 


98 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


grinning  Golden  Gods  that  liad  come  ont  of  the  Sum* 
mer  Palace  in  Pekin  to  the  silver-mounted  markhor- 
horn  snuff-mull  presented  by  the  last  C.  O.  [he  who 
spake  to  the  seven  subalterns] .  And  every  one  of  those 
legends  told  him  of  battles  fought  at  long  odds,  without 
fear  as  without  support ;  of  hospitality  catholic  as  an  ' 
Arab’s  ;  of  friendships  deep  as  the  sea  and  steady  as  the 
fighting-line  ;  of  honour  won  by  hard  roads  for  honour’s 
sake  ;  and  of  instant  and  unquestioning  devotion  to  the 
Regiment  —  the  Regiment  that  claims  the  lives  of  all 
and  lives  for  ever. 

More  than  once,  too,  he  came  officially  into  contact 
with  the  Regimental  colours,  which  looked  like  the  lin¬ 
ing  of  a  bricklayer’s  hat  on  the  end  of  a  chewed  stick. 
Bobby  did  not  kneel  and  worship  them,  because  British 
subalterns  are  not  constructed  in  that  manner.  Indeed, 
he  condemned  them  for  their  weight  at  the  very  moment 
that  they  were  filling  with  awe  and  other  more  noble 
sentiments. 

But  best  of  all  was  the  occasion  when  he  moved  with 
the  Tail  Twisters  in  review  order  at  the  breaking  of  a 
November  day.  Allowing  for  duty-men  and  sick,  the 
Regiment  was  one  thousand  and  eighty  strong,  and 
Bobby  belonged  to  them ;  for  was  he  not  a  Subaltern 
of  the  Line  —  the  whole  Line  and  nothing  but  the  Line 
—  as  the  tramp  of  two  thousand  one  hundred  and  sixty 
sturdy  ammunition  boots  attested?  He  would  not  have 
changed  places  with  Deighton  of  the  Horse  Battery, 
whirling  by  in  a  pillar  of  cloud  to  a  chorus  of  ‘  Strong 
right!  Strong  left!  ’  or  Hogan- Yale  of  the  White 
Hussars,  leading  his  squadron  for  all  it  was  worth,  with 
the  price  of  horseshoes  thrown  in ;  or  4  Tick  ’  Boileau, 
trying  to  live  up  to  his  fierce  blue  and  gold  turban 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


99 


while  the  wasps  of  the  Bengal  Cavalry  stretched  to  a 
gallop  in  the  wake  of  the  long,  lollopping  Walers  of 
the  White  Hussars. 

They  fought  through  the  clear  cool  day,  and  Bobby 
felt  a  little  thrill  run  down  his  spine  when  he  heard  the 
tinkle-tinkle-tinkle  of  the  empty  cartridge-cases  hopping 
from  the  breech-blocks  after  the  roar  of  the  volleys ; 
for  he  knew  that  he  should  live  to  hear  that  sound  in 
action.  The  review  ended  in  a  glorious  chase  across 
the  plain  —  batteries  thundering  after  cavalry  to  the 
huge  disgust  of  the  White  Hussars,  and  the  Tyneside 
Tail  Twisters  hunting  a  Sikh  Regiment,  till  the  lean 
lathy  Singhs  panted  with  exhaustion.  Bobby  was  dusty 
and  dripping  long  before  noon,  but  his  enthusiasm  was 
merely  focused  — not  diminished. 

He  returned  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Revere,  his  4  skipper/ 
that  is  to  say,  the  Captain  of  his  Company,  and  to  be 
instructed  in  the  dark  art  and  mystery  of  managing 

men,  which  is  a  very  large  part  of  the  Profession  of 
Arms. 

4  haven  t  a  taste  that  way/  said  Revere  between 

his  puffs  of  his  cheroot,  4  you’ll  never  be  able  to  get  the 
hang  of  it,  but  remember,  Bobby,  ’tisn’t  the  best  drill, 
though  drill  is  nearly  everything,  that  hauls  a  Regi¬ 
ment  through  Hell  and  out  on  the  other  side.  It’s  the 
man  who  knows  how  to  handle  men  —  goat-men,  swine- 
men,  dog-men,  and  so  on.’ 

‘Dormer,  for  instance/  said  Bobby,  4 1  think  he 
comes  under  the  head  of  fool-men.  He  mopes  like  a 
sick  owl.’ 

‘That’s  where  you  make  your  mistake,  my  son. 
Dormer  isn’t  a  fool  yet ,  but  he’s  a  dashed  dirty  soldier, 
and  his  room  corporal  makes  fun  of  his  socks  before 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


100 

kit-inspection.  Dormer,  being  two-thirds  pure  brute, 
goes  into  a  corner  and  growls.’ 

‘  How  do  you  know  ?  ’  said  Bobby  admiringly. 

‘  Because  a  Company  commander  has  to  know  these 
things— because,  if  he  does  not  know,  he  may  have 
crime  — ay,  murder — brewing  under  his  very  nose 
and  yet  not  see  that  it’s  there.  Dormer  is  being  badg¬ 
ered  out  of  his  mind — big  as  he  is  —  and  he  hasn’t 
intellect  enough  to  resent  it.  He’s  taken  to  quiet 
boozing  and,  Bobby,  when  the  butt  of  a  room  goes  on 
the  drink,  or  takes  to  moping  by  himself,  measures  are 
necessary  to  pull  him  out  of  himself.’ 

‘ What  measures?  ’Man  can’t  run  round  coddling 

his  men  for  ever.’ 

6  No.  The  men  would  precious  soon  show  him  that 
he  was  not  wanted.  You’ve  got  to - ’ 

Here  the  Colour-sergeant  entered  with  some  papers  ; 
Bobby  reflected  for  a  while  as  Revere  looked  through 
the  Company  forms. 

4  Does  Dormer  do  anything,  Sergeant  ?  ’  Bobby 
asked  with  the  air  of  one  continuing  an  interrupted 
conversation. 

4  No,  sir.  Does  ’is  dooty  like  a  hortomato,’  said  the 
Sergeant,  who  delighted  in  long  words.  ‘  A  dirty  sol¬ 
dier,  and  ’e’s  under  full  stoppages  for  new  kit.  It’s 
covered  with  scales,  sir.’ 

'  Scales  ?  What  scales  ?  ’ 

4  Fish-scales,  sir.  ’E’s  always  pokin’  in  the  mud 
by  the  river  an’  a-cleanin’  them  muchly- fish  with  is 
thumbs.’  Revere  was  still  absorbed  in  the  Company 
papers,  and  the  Sergeant,  who  was  sternly  fond  of 
Bobby,  continued,— 4 ’E  generally  goes  down  there 
when  ’e’s  got  ’is  skinful,  beggin’  your  pardon,  sir,  an1 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


101 


they  do  say  that  the  more  lush  —  in-Ae-briated  ’e  is,  the 
more  fish  ’e  catches.  They  call  ’im  the  Looney  Fish¬ 
monger  in  the  Comp’ny,  sir.’ 

Revere  signed  the  last  paper  and  the  Sergeant  re^ 
treated. 

4  It’s  a  filthy  amusement,’  sighed  Bobby  to  himself. 
Then  aloud  to  Revere  :  4  Are  you  really  worried  about 
Dormer  ?  ’ 

4  A  little.  You  see  he’s  never  mad  enough  to  send 
to  hospital,  or  drunk  enough  to  run  in,  but  at  any  min¬ 
ute  he  may  flare  up,  brooding  and  sulking  as  he  does. 
He  resents  any  interest  being  shown  in  him,  and  the 
only  time  I  took  him  out  shooting  he  all  but  shot  me 
by  accident.’ 

4 1  fish,’  said  Bobby  with  a  wry  face.  4 1  hire  a 
country-boat  and  go  down  the  river  from  Thursday 

to  Sunday,  and  the  amiable  Dormer  goes  with  me _ if 

you  can  spare  us  both.’ 

4 You  blazing  young  fool!’  said  Revere,  but  hir 
heart  was  full  of  much  more  pleasant  words. 

Bobby,  the  Captain  of  a  dhoni,  with  Private  Dormei 
for  mate,  dropped  down  the  river  on  Thursday  morn¬ 
ing —  the  Private  at  the  bow,  the  Subaltern  at  the 
helm.  The  Private  glared  uneasily  at  the  Subaltern, 
who  respected  the  reserve  of  the  Private. 

After  six  hours,  Dormer  paced  to  the  stern,  saluted, 
and  said  — 4  Beg  y’  pardon,  sir,  but  was  you  ever  on 
the  Durh’m  Canal  ?  ’ 

4  No,’  said  Bobby  Wick.  4  Come  and  have  some 
tiffin.’ 

They  ate  in  silence.  As  the  evening  fell,  Private 
Dormer  broke  forth,  speaking  to  himself  — 

4  Hi  was  on  the  Durh’m  Canal,  jes’  such  a  night, 


102 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


COme  next  week  twelve  montli,  a-trailin  of  my  toes  in 
the  water.’  He  smoked  and  said  no  more  till  bedtime. 

The  witchery  of  the  dawn  turned  the  gray  river- 
reaches  to  purple,  gold,  and  opal ;  and  it  was  as  though 
the  lumbering  dhoni  crept  across  the  splendours  of  a 
new  heaven. 

Private  Dormer  popped  his  head  out  of  his  blanket 
and  gazed  at  the  glory  belov  and  around. 

t  Well  —  damn  —  my  eyes  !  ’  said  Private  Dormer 
in  an  awed  whisper.  ‘This  ’ere  is  like  a  bloomin 
gallantry-show!’  For  the  rest  of  the  day  he  was 
dumb,  but  achieved  an  ensanguined  filthiness  through 
the  cleaning  of  big  fish. 

The  boat  returned  on  Saturday  evening.  Dormer 
had  been  struggling  with  speech  since  noon.  As  the 
lines  and  luggage  were  being  disembarked,  he  found 
tongue. 

‘Beg  y’  pardon,  sir,’  he  said,  ‘but  would  you  — 
would  you  min’  shakin’  ’ands  with  me,  sir?  ’ 

4  Of  course  not,’  said  Bobby,  and  he  shook  accoid- 
ingly.  Dormer  returned  to  barracks  and  Bobby  to 

mess. 

‘  He  wanted  a  little  quiet  and  some  fishing,  I  think,’ 
said  Bobby.  ‘  My  aunt,  but  he’s  a  filthy  sort  of  ani¬ 
mal  I  Have  you  ever  seen  him  clean  “  them,  muchly- 
fish  with  ’is  thumbs  ”  ?  ’ 

‘Anyhow,’  said  Revere  three  weeks  later,  ‘he’s  do¬ 
ing  his  best  to  keep  his  things  mean. 

When  the  spring  died,  Bobby  joined  in  the  general 
scramble  for  Hill  leave,  and  to  his  surprise  and  delight 
secured  three  months. 

‘  As  good  a  boy  as  I  want,’  said  Revere  the  admir- 
in g  skipper. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


103 

‘  The  best  of  tlie  batch,’  said  the  Adjutant  to  the 
Colonel.  4  Keep  back  that  young  skrimshanker  Por- 
kiss,  sir,  and  let  Revere  make  him  sit  up.’ 

So  Bobby  departed  joyously  to  Simla  Pahar  with 
a  tin  box  of  gorgeous  raiment. 

‘  ’Son  of  Wick  —  old  Wick  of  Chota-Buldana?  Ask 
him  to  dinner,  dear,’  said  the  aged  men. 

4  What  a  nice  boy !  ’  said  the  matrons  and  the  maids. 

4  First-class  place,  Simla.  Oh,  ri — ipping !  3  said 
Bobby  Wick,  and  ordered  new  white  cord  breeches 
on  the  strength  of  it. 

4  We’re  in  a  bad  way,’  wrote  Revere  to  Bobby  at 
the  end  of  two  months.  4  Since  you  left,  the  Regi¬ 
ment  has  taken  to  fever  and  is  fairly  rotten  with  it 
*  two  hundred  in  hospital,  about  a  hundred  in  cells 

drinking  to  keep  off  fever  —  and  the  Companies 
on  parade  fifteen  file  strong  at  the  outside.  There’s 
lather  more  sickness  in  the  out- villages  than  I  care 
for,  but  then  I’m  so  blistered  with  prickly-heat  that 
I  m  ready  to  hang  myself.  What’s  the  yarn  about 
your  mashing  a  Miss  Haverley  up  there  ?  Not  serious, 

I  hope?  You’re  over-young  to  hang  millstones  round 
your  neck,  and  the  Colonel  will  turf  you  out  of  that 
in  double-quick  time  if  you  attempt  it.’ 

It  was  not  the  Colonel  that  brought  Bobby  out  of 
Simla,  but  a  much  more  to  be  respected  Commandant. 
The  sickness  in  the  out-villages  spread,  the  Bazar  was 
put  out  of  bounds,  and  then  came  the  news  that  the 
Tail  Twisters  must  go  into  camp.  The  message  flashed 
to  the  Hill  stations.  —  4  Cholera  —  Leave  stopped  — 
Officers  recalled.’  Alas,  for  the  white  gloves  in  the 
neatly  soldered  boxes,  the  rides  and  the  dances  and 
picnics  that  were  to  be,  the  loves  half  spoken,  and  the 


104 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


debts  unpaid  !  Without  demur  and  without  question, 
fast  as  tonga  could  fly  or  pony  gallop,  back  to  their 
Regiments  and  their  Batteries,  as  though  they  were 
hastening  to  their  weddings,  fled  the  subalterns. 

Bobby  received  his  orders  on  returning  from  a  dance 

at  Viceregal  Lodge  where  he  had - but  only  the 

Haverley  girl  knows  what  Bobby  had  said  or  how 
many  waltzes  he  had  claimed  for  the  next  ball.  Six  in 
the  morning  saw  Bobby  at  the  Tonga  Office  in  the 
drenching  rain,  the  whirl  of  the  last  waltz  still  in  his 
ears,  and  an  intoxication  due  neither  to  wine  nor  waltz¬ 
ing  in  his  brain. 

4  Good  man  !  ’  shouted  Deighton  of  the  Horse  Battery 
through  the  mists.  4  Whar  you  raise  dat  tonga?  I’m 
coming  with  you.  Ow  !  But  I’ve  a  head  and  half.  1 
didn’t  sit  out  all  night.  They  say  the  Battery’s  awful 
bad,'  and  he  hummed  dolorously  — 

4  Leave  the  what  at  the  what’s-its-name, 

Leave  the  flock  without  shelter, 

Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

Leave  the  bride  at  the  altar  ! 

0 

4 My  faith!  It’ll  be  more  bally  corpse  than  bride, 
though,  this  journey.  Jump  in,  Bobby.  Get  on, 
Coachwan!  ’ 

On  the  Umballa  platform  waited  a  detachment  of 
officers  discussing  the  latest  news  from  the  stricken 
cantonment,  and  it  was  here  that  Bobby  learned  the 
real  condition  of  the  Tail  Twisters. 

4  They  went  into  camp,’  said  an  elderly  Major  recalled 
from  the  whist-tables  at  Mussoorie  to  a  sickly  Native 
Regiment,  4  they  went  into  camp  with  two  hundred  and 
ten  sick  m  carts.  Two  hundred  and  ten  fever  cases 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


105 

only,  and  the  balance  looking  like  so  many  ghosts  with 

soie  eyes.  A  Madras  Regiment  could  have  walked 
through  ’em.’ 

‘  But  they  were  as  fit  as  be -damned  when  I  left  them  !  ’ 
said  Bobby. 

‘ Tlien  y°u’d  better  make  them  as  fit  as  be-damned 
when  you  rejoin,’  said  the  Major  brutally. 

Bobby  pressed  his  forehead  against  the  rain-splashed 
window  pane  as  the  train  lumbered  across  the  sodden 
Doab,  and  prayed  for  the  health  of  the  Tyneside  Tail 
Twisters.  Naini  Tal  had  sent  down  her  contingent 
with  all  speed;  the  lathering  ponies  of  the  Dalhousie 
Road  staggered  into  Pathankot,  taxed  to  the  full 
stretch  of  their  strength ;  while  from  cloudy  Darjiling 
the  Calcutta  Mail  whirled  up  the  last  straggler  of  the 
little  army  that  was  to  fight  a  fight,  in  which  was 
neither  medal  nor  honour  for  the  winning,  against  an 

enemy  none  other  than  4  the  sickness  that  destroyeth  in 
the  noonday.’ 

And  as  each  man  reported  himself,  he  said :  4  This 
is  a  bad  business,’  and  went  about  his  own  forthwith, 
for  every  Regiment  and  Battery  in  the  cantonment 
was  under  canvas,  the  sickness  bearing  them  company. 

Bobby  fought  his  way  through  the  rain  to  the  Tail 
Twisters’  temporary  mess,  and  Revere  could  have  fallen 
on  the  boy’s  neck  for  the  joy  of  seeing  that  ugly, 
wholesome  phiz  once  more. 

‘Keep  ’em  amused  and  interested,’  said  Revere. 

‘They  went  on  the  drink,  poor  fools,  after  the  first 

two  cases,  and  there  was  no  improvement.  Oh,  it’s 

good  to  have  you  back,  Bobby!  Porkiss  is  a  — never 
mind.’ 

Deighton  came  over  from  the  Artillery  camp  to 


106 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


attend  a  dreary  mess  dinner,  and  contributed  to  tbe 
general  gloom  by  nearly  weeping  over  the  condition  of 
his  beloved  Battery.  Porkiss  so  far  forgot  himself  as 
to  insinuate  that  the  presence  of  the  officers  could  do 
no  earthly  good,  and  that  the  best  thing  would  be  to 
send  the  entire  Regiment  into  hospital  and  ‘  let  the 
doctors  look  after  them.’  Porkiss  was  demoralised 
with  fear,  nor  was  his  peace  of  mind  restored  when 
Revere  said  coldly:  ‘Oh!  The  sooner  you  go  out  the 
better,  if  that’s  your  way  of  thinking.  Any  public 
school  could  send  us  fifty  good  men  in  your  place,  but 
it  takes  time,  time,  Porkiss,  and  money,  and  a  certain 
amount  of  trouble,  to  make  a  Regiment.  ’S’pose  you're 
the  person  we  go  into  camp  for,  eh  ?  ’ 

Whereupon  Porkiss  was  overtaken  with  a  great  and 
chilly  fear  which  a  drenching  in  the  rain  did  not  allay, 
and,  two  days  later,  quitted  this  world  for  another 
where,  men  do  fondly  hope,  allowances  are  made  for 
the  weaknesses  of  the  flesh.  The  Regimental  Sergeant- 
Major  looked  wearily  across  the  Sergeants’  Mess  tent 

when  the  news  was  announced. 

i  There  goes  the  worst  of  them,’  he  said.  ‘  It’ll  take 
the  best,  and  then,  please  God,  it’ll  stop.’  The  Ser¬ 
geants  were  silent  till  one  said:  ‘It  couldn’t  be  him!' 
and  all  knew  of  whom  Travis  was  thinking. 

Bobby  Wick  stormed  through  the  tents  of  his  Com¬ 
pany,  rallying,  rebuking,  mildly,  as  is  consistent  with 
the  Regulations,  chaffing  the  faint-hearted ;  haling  the 
sound  into  the  watery  sunlight  when  there  was  a  break 
in  the  weather,  and  bidding  them  be  of  good  cheer  for 
their  trouble  was  nearly  at  an  end ;  scuttling  on  his 
dun  pony  round  the  outskirts  of  the  camp  and  heading 
back  men  who,  with  the  innate  perversity  of  British 


ONLY  A  SUBALTE11N 


107 

soldiers,  were  always  wandering  into  infected  villages, 
01  drinking  deeply  from  rain-flooded  marshes;  com¬ 
forting  the  panic-stricken  with  rude  speech,  and  more 
than  once  tending  the  dying  who  had  no  friends  — 
the  men  without  ‘  townies  ’ ;  organising,  with  banjos 
and  burnt  cork,  Sing-songs  which  should  allow  the 
talent  of  the  Regiment  full  play,  and  generally,  as  he 
explained,  ‘playing  the  giddy  garden-goat  all  round.’ 

1  ou  re  worth  half  a  dozen  of  us,  Bobby,’  said  Revere 

m  a  moment  of  enthusiasm.  4  How  the  devil  do  vou 
keep  it  up  ?  ’ 

Bobby  made  no  answer,  but  had  Revere  looked  into 
the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  he  might  have  seen  there 
a  sheaf  of  badly- written  letters  which  perhaps  accounted 
for  the  power  that  possessed  the  boy.  A  letter  came 
to  Bobby  every  other  day.  The  spelling  was  not 
above  reproach,  but  the  sentiments  must  have  been 
most  satisfactory,  for  on  receipt  Bobby’s  eyes  softened 
marvellously,  and  he  was  wont  to  fall  into  a  tender 
abstraction  for  a  while  ere,  shaking  his  cropped  head, 
he  charged  into  his  work. 

By  what  power  he  drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  the 
roughest,  and  the  Tail  Twisters  counted  in  their  ranks 
some  rough  diamonds  indeed,  was  a  mystery  to  both 
skipper  and  C.  O.,  who  learned  from  the  regimental 
chaplain  that  Bobby  was  considerably  more  in  request 
in  the  hospital  tents  than  the  Reverend  John  Emery. 

.  ‘  The  men  seem  fond  of  you.  Are  you  in  the  hos¬ 
pitals  much  ?  ’  said  the  Colonel,  who  did  his  daily  round 
and  ordered  the  men  to  get  well  with  a  hardness  that 
did  not  cover  his  bitter  grief. 

‘  A  little,  sir,’  said  Bobby. 

'  Shouldn’t  go  there  too  often  if  I  were  you.  They 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

sav  it’s  not  contagious,  but  there’s  no  use  in  running 

S.— y  mk.'  w.  «“’*  *“  to  1“,e  k"  d°”" 

’’  s”I.y»  later,  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that 
the  post- runner  Pl»h,d  hie  way  out  Jo  the j  e.«p  wfih 
the  mail-bags,  for  the  ram  was  falling 
Bobby  received  a  letter,  bore  it  off  to  his  tent,  and,  he 
programme  for  the  next  week’s  Sing-song  being  satis^ 
factorily  disposed  of,  sat  down  to  answer  it.  I  or  an 
hour  the  unhandy  pen  toiled  over  the  paper,  and  where 
sentiment  rose  to  more  than  normal  tide-level,  Bobby 
Wick  stuck  out  his  tongue,  and  breathed  heavi  y. 

was  not  used  to  letter-writing.  _ 

i  Beg  y’  pardon,  sir,’  said  a  voice  at  the  tent  do  , 

t  but  Dormer’s  ’orrid  bad,  sir,  an’  they’ve  taken  him  orf, 

SU‘ Damn  Private  Dormer  and  you 

Wick,  running  the  blotter  over  the  half-finished 

4  Tell  him  I’ll  come  in  the  morning. 

.’E’s  awful  bad,  sir,’  said  the  voice  hesitatingly. 

There  was  an  undecided  squelching  o  leavy 
‘  Well ?’  said  Bobby  impatiently.  ... 

‘Excusin’  ’imself  before’and  for  takin  the. lib  y,  _ 

says  it  would  be  a  comfort  for  to  assist  lm,  sir,  1 

l  Tattoo  lao!  Get  my  pony!  Here  come  in  out  o 
the  rain  till  I’m  ready.  What  blasted  nuisances  you 
are  !  That’s  brandy.  Drink  some. ;  you  want  it. 
Hang  on  to  my  stirrup  and  tell  me  if  I  go  oo  as  . 

Strengthened  by  a  four-finger  ‘nip’  which  he  swal¬ 
lowed  without  a  wink,  the  Hospital  Orderly  kept  up 
with  the  slipping,  mud-stained,  and  very  disgusted  pony 

as  it  shambled  to  the  hospital  tent. 

Private  Dormer  was  certainly  orn 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


109 


h?id  all  but  reached  the  stage  of  collapse  and  was  not 
pleasant  to  look  upon. 

4  What  s  this,  Dormer  ?  ’  said  Bobby,  bending  oyer 
the  man.  ‘You’re  not  going  out  this  time.  You’ve 
got  to  come  fishing  with  me  once  or  twice  more  yet.’ 

The  blue  lips  parted  and  in  the  ghost  of  a  whisper 
said,  — 4  Beg  y’  pardon,  sir,  disturbin’  of  you  now,  but 
would  you  min’  ’oldin’  my  ’and,  sir  ?  ’ 

Bobby  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  the  icy  cold 
hand  closed  on  his  own  like  a  vice,  forcing  a  lady’s 
ring  which  was  on  the  little  finger  deep  into  the  flesh. 
Bobby  set  his  lips  and  waited,  the  water  dripping  from 
the  hem  of  his  trousers.  An  hour  passed  and  the  grasp 
of  the  hand  did  not  relax,  nor  did  the  expression  of  the 
drawn  face  change.  Bobby  with  infinite  craft  lit  him¬ 
self  a  cheroot  with  the  left  hand,  his  right  arm  was 
numbed  to  the  elbow,  and  resigned  himself  to  a  night 
of  pain.  6 

Dawn  showed  a  very  white-faced  Subaltern  sitting 
on  the  side  of  a  sick  man’s  cot,  and  a  Doctor  in  the 
doorway  using  language  unfit  for  publication. 

‘  Have  you  been  here  all  night,  you  young  ass  ?  ’  said 
the  Doctor. 

4  There  or  thereabouts,’  said  Bobby  ruefully.  4  He’s 
frozen  on  to  me.’ 

Dormer’s  mouth  shut  with  a  click.  He  turned  his 
head  and  sighed.  The  clinging  hand  opened,  and 
Bobby’s  arm  fell  useless  at  his  side. 

‘He’ll  do,’  said  the  Doctor  quietly.  ‘It  must  have 
been  a  toss-up  all  through  the  night.  ’Think  you’re 
to  be  congratulated  on  this  case.’ 

4  Oh,  bosh !  ’  said  Bobby.  ‘  I  thought  the  man  had 
gone  out  long  ago  —  only  —  only  I  didn’t  care  to  take 


i:1()  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

my  hand  away.  Rub  my  arm  down,  there’s  a  good 
chap.  What  a  grip  the  brute  has  !  I’m  chilled  to  the 
marrow !  ’  He  passed  out  of  the  tent  shiveiing. 

Private  Dormer  was  allowed  to  celebrate  his  repulse 
of  Death  by  strong  waters.  Four  days  later,  he  sat  on 
the  side  of  his  cot  and  said  to  the  patients  mildly:  4  I’d 
’a’  liken  to  ’a’  spoken  to  ’im —  so  I  should.’ 

But  at  that  time  Bobby  was  reading  yet  another  let- 

ter _ he  had  the  most  persistent  correspondent  of  any 

man  in  camp  —  and  was  even  then  about  to  write  that 
the  sickness  had  abated,  and  in  another  week  at  the  out¬ 
side  would  be  gone.  He  did  not  intend  to  say  that  the 
chill  of  a  sick  man’s  hand  seemed  to  have  struck  into 
the  heart  whose  capacities  for  affection  he  dwelt  on  at 
such  length.  He  did  intend  to  enclose  the  illustrated 
programme  of  the  forthcoming  Sing-song  whereof  he 
was  not  a  little  proud.  He  also  intended  to  write  on 
many  other  matters  which  do  not  concern  us,  and  doubt¬ 
less  would  have  done  so  but  for  the  slight  feverish  head¬ 
ache  which  made  him  dull  and  unresponsive  at  mess. 

‘You  are  overdoing  it,  Bobby,’  said  his  skipper. 
‘’Might  give  the  rest  of  us  credit  of  doing  a  little 
work.  You  go  on  as  if  you  were  the  whole  Mess 

rolled  into  one.  Take  it  easy.’ 

‘  I  will,’  said  Bobby.  4  I’m  feeling  done  up,  some¬ 
how.’  Revere  looked  at  him  anxiously  and  said  noth¬ 
ing. 

There  was  a  flickering  of  lanterns  about  the  camp 
that  night,  and  a  rumour  that  brought  men  out  of 
their  cots  to  the  tent  doors,  a  paddling  of  the  naked 
feet  of  doolie-bearers  and  the  rush  of  a  galloping  horse. 

4  Wot’s  up  ?  ’  asked  twenty  tents ;  and  through 
twenty  tents  ran  the  answer  — 4  Wick,  ’e’s  down. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


111 

They  brought  the  news  to  Revere  and  he  groaned. 

‘  Any  one  but  Bobby  and  I  shouldn’t  have  cared  !  The 
Sergeant-Major  was  right.’ 

‘ Not  g°in?  °nt  this  journey,’  gasped  Bobby,  as  he 
was  lifted  from  the  doolie.  ‘  Not  going  out  this  jour- 

noy*  Then  Avitli  an  air  of  supreme  conviction _ ‘  I 

can’t ,  you  see.’ 

4  Not  if  I  can  do  anything  !  5  said  the  Surgeon-Major, 
who  had  hastened  over  from  the  mess  where  he  had 
been  dining. 

He  and  the  Regimental  Surgeon  fought  together  with 
Death  for  the  life  of  Bobby  Wick.  Their  work  was 
interrupted  by  a  hairy  apparition  in  a  blue-gray  dress- 

ing-gown  who  stared  in  horror  at  the  bed  and  cried _ 

Oh,  my  Gawd  !  It  can  t  be  ’ im  !  ’  until  an  indignant 
Hospital  Orderly  whisked  him  away. 

If  caie  of  man  and  desire  to  live  could  have  done 
aught,  Bobby  would  have  been  saved.  As  it  was,  he 
made  a  fight  of  three  days,  and  the  Surgeon-Major’s 
brow  uncreased.  4  We’ll  save  him  yet,’  he  said  ;  and 
the  Surgeon,  who,  though  he  ranked  with  the  Captain, 
had  a  very  youthful  heart,  went  out  upon  the  word  and 
pranced  joyously  in  the  mud. 

4  Not  going  out  this  journey,’  whispered  Bobby  Wick 
gallantly,  at  the  end  of  the  third  day. 

4  Bravo  !  ’  said  the  Surgeon-Major.  4  That’s  the  wav 
to  look  at  it,  Bobby.’ 

As  evening  fell  a  gray  shade  gathered  round  Bobby’s 
mouth,  and  he  turned  his  face  to  the  tent  wall  wearily. 
The  Surgeon-Major  frowned. 

4 1  m  awfully  tired,’  said  Bobby,  very  faintly.  4  What’s 

the  use  of  bothering  me  with  medicine  ?  I  —  don’t _ 

want- — it.  Let  me  alone.’ 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


112 

Tlie  desire  for  life  had  departed,  and  Bobby  was  com 
tent  to  drift  away  on  the  easy  tide  of  Death. 

‘  It’s  no  good,’  said  the  Surgeon-Major.  ‘He  doesn’t 
want  to  live.  He’s  meeting  it,  poor  child.  And  he 

blew  his  nose. 

Half  a  mile  away,  the  regimental  band  was  playing 
the  overture  to  the  Sing-song,  for  the  men  had  been  told 
that  Bobby  was  out  of  danger.  The  clash  of  the  brass 
and  the  wail  of  the  horns  reached  Bobby’s  ears. 

Is  there  a  single  joy  or  pain, 

That  I  should  never  kno — ow  ? 

You  do  not  love  me,  ’tis  in  vain, 

Bid  me  good-bye  and  go  ! 

An  expression  of  hopeless  irritation  crossed  the  boy  s 
face,  and  he  tried  to  shake  his  head. 

The  Surgeon-Major  bent  down  —  ‘What  is  it? 
Bobby?  ’  —  ‘Not  that  waltz,’  muttered  Bobby.  ‘  That’s 
our  own — our  very  ownest  own.  .  .  .  Mummy  dear. 

With  this  he  sank  into  the  stupor  that  gave  place  to 
death  early  next  morning. 

Revere,  his  eyes  red  at  the  rims  and  his  nose  very 
white,  went  into  Bobby’s  tent  to  write  a  letter  to  Papa 
Wick  which  should  bow  the  white  head  of  the  ex-Com- 
missioner  of  Chota-Buldana  in  the  keenest  sorrow  of 
his  life.  Bobby’s  little  store  of  papers  lay  in  confusion 
on  the  table,  and  among  them  a  half -finished  letter. 
The  last  sentence  ran :  ‘  So  you  see,  darling,  there  is 
really  no  fear,  because  as  long  as  I  know  you  care  for 
me  and  I  care  for  you,  nothing  can  touch  me.’ 

Revere  stayed  in  the  tent  for  an  hour.  When  he 
came  out,  his  eyes  were  redder  than  ever. 


ONLY  A  SUBALTERN 


113 


Private  Conklin  sat  on  a  turned-down  bucket,  and 
listened  to  a  not  unfamiliar  tune.  Private  Conklin 
was  a  convalescent  and  should  have  been  tenderly 
treated. 

4  Ho!’  said  Private  Conklin.  4  There’s  another 
bloomin’  orf’cer  da — ed.’ 

The  bucket  shot  from  under  him,  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  a  smithyful  of  sparks.  A  tall  man  in  a  blue-gray 
bedgown  was  regarding  him  with  deep  disfavour. 

4  You  ought  to  take  shame  for  yourself,  Conky! 
Orf’cer?  —  bloomin’  orfcer?  I’ll  learn  you  to  mis¬ 
name  the  likes  of  ’im.  Hangel!  Bloomin'9  Hangel! 
That’s  wot  ’e  is!  ’ 

And  the  Hospital  Orderly  was  so  satisfied  with  the 
justice  of  the  punishment  that  he  did  not  even  order 
Private  Dormer  back  to  his  cot. 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 

May  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 

Nor  Powers  of  Darkness  me  molest. 

Evening  Hymn. 

One  of  the  few  advantages  that  India  has  over  Eng¬ 
land  is  a  great  Knowability.  After  five  years’  service  a 
man  is  directly  or  indirectly  acquainted  with  the  two  or 
three  hundred  Civilians  in  his  Province,  all  the  Messes 
of  ten  or  twelve  Regiments  and  Batteries,  and  some 
fifteen  hundred  other  people  of  the  non-official  caste. 
In  ten  years  his  knowledge  should  be  doubled,  and  at 
the  end  of  twenty  he  knows,  or  knows  something  about, 
every  Englishman  in  the  Empire,  and  may  travel  any¬ 
where  and  everywhere  without  paying  hotel-bills. 

Globe-trotters  who  expect  entertainment  as  a  right, 
have,  even  within  my  memory,  blunted  this  open-heart¬ 
edness,  but  none  the  less  to-day,  if  you  belong  to  the 
Inner  Circle  and  are  neither  a  Bear  nor  a  Black  Sheep, 
all  houses  are  open  to  you,  and  our  small  world  is  very, 
very  kind  and  helpful. 

Rickett  of  Kamartha  stayed  with  P older  of  Kumaon 
some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  meant  to  stay  two  nights, 
but  was  knocked  down  by  rheumatic  fever,  and  for 
six  weeks  disorganised  Polder’s  establishment,  stopped 
Polder’s  work,  and  nearly  died  in  Polder’s  bedroom. 
Polder  behaves  as  though  he  had  been  placed  under 
eternal  obligation  by  Rickett,  and  yearly  sends  the  little 
Ricketts  a  box  of  presents  and  toys.  It  is  the  same 

114 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW  115 

everywhere.  The  men  who  do  not  take  the  trouble  to 
conceal  from  you  their  opinion  that  you  are  an  incom¬ 
petent  ass,  and  the  women  who  blacken  your  character 
and  misunderstand  your  wife’s  amusements,  will  work 
themselves  to  the  bone  in  your  behalf  if  you  fall  sick  or 
into  serious  trouble. 

Heatherlegh,  the  Doctor,  kept,  in  addition  to  his 

regular  practice,  a  hospital  on  his  private  account _ an 

arrangement  of  loose  boxes  for  Incurables,  his  friend 
called  it— but  it  was  really  a  sort  of  fitting-up  shed  for 
craft  that  had  been  damaged  by  stress  of  weather.  The 
weather  in  India  is  often  sultry,  and  since  the  tale  of 
bricks  is  always  a  fixed  quantity,  and  the  only  liberty 
allowed  is  permission  to  work  overtime  and  get  no 
thanks,  men  occasionally  break  down  and  become  as 
mixed  as  the  metaphors  in  this  sentence. 

.  Heatherlegh  is  the  dearest  doctor  that  ever  was,  and 
his  invariable  prescription  to  all  his  patients  is,  ‘Lie 
low,  g-o  slow,  and  keep  cool.’  He  says  that  more  men 
are  killed  by  overwork  than  the  importance  of  this 
world  justifies.  He  maintains  that  overwork  slew 
Pansay,  who  died  under  his  hands  about  three  years 
ago.  He  has,  of  course,  the  right  to  speak  authorita¬ 
tively,  and  he  laughs  at  my  theory  that  there  was  a 
crack  m  Pansay’s  head  and  a  little  bit  of  the  Dark 
World  came  through  and  pressed  him  to  death.  4  Pan- 
say  went  off  the  handle,’  says  Heatherlegh,  ‘after  the 
stimulus  of  long  leave  at  Home.  He  may  or  he  may 
not  have  behaved  like  a  blackguard  to  Mrs.  Keith- 
Wessington.  My  notion  is  that  the  work  of  the  Kata- 
bunch  Settlement  ran  him  off  his  legs,  and  that  he  took 
to  brooding  and  making  much  of  an  ordinary  P.  &  O. 
flirtation  He  certainly  was  engaged  to  Miss  Manner- 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


116 

ing,  and  she  certainly  broke  off  the  engagement.  Then 
he  took  a  feverish  chill  and  all  that  nonsense  about 
ghosts  developed.  Overwork  started  his  illness,  kept 
it  alight,  and  killed  him,  poor  devil.  Write  him  off  to 
the  System  that  uses  one  man  to  do  the  work  of  two 

and  a  half  men.’ 

I  do  not  believe  this.  I  used  to  sit  up  with  Pansay 
sometimes  when  Heatherlegh  was  called  out  to  patients 
and  I  happened  to  be  within  claim.  The  man  would 
make  me  most  unhappy  by  describing  in  a  low,  even 
voice,  the  procession  that  was  always  passing  at  the 
bottom  of  his  bed.  He  had  a  sick  man’s  command  of 
language.  When  he  recovered  I  suggested  that  he 
should  write  out  the  whole  affair  from  beginning  to 
end,  knowing  that  ink  might  assist  him  to  ease  his 

mind. 

He  was  in  a  high  fever  while  he  was  writing,  and  the 
blood-and-thunder  Magazine  diction  he  adopted  did  not 
calm  him.  Two  months  afterwards  he  was  reported  fit 
for  duty,  but,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  urgently 
needed  to  help  an  undermanned  Commission  stagger 
through  a  deficit,  he  preferred  to  die ;  vowing  at  the 
last  that  he  was  hag-ridden.  I  got  Ins  manuscript 
before  he  died,  and  this  is  his  version  of  the  affair, 
dated  1885,  exactly  as  he  wrote  it :  — 

My  doctor  tells  me  that  I  need  rest  and  change  of 
air.  It  is  not  improbable  that  I  shall  get  both  ere 
long  —  rest  that  neither  the  red-coated  messenger  nor 
the  mid-day  gun  can  break,  and  change  of  air  far 
beyond  that  which  any  homeward-bound  steamer  can 
give  me.  In  the  meantime  I  am  resolved  to  stay 
where  I  am  ;  and,  in  flat  defiance  of  my  doctor’s  orders, 
to  take  all  the  world  into  my  confidence.  Fou  shall 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


11? 


learn  for  yourselves  the  precise  nature  of  my  malady, 
and  shall,  too,  judge  for  yourselves  whether  any  man 
born  of  woman  on  this  weary  earth  was  ever  so  tor¬ 
mented  as  I. 

Speaking  now  as  a  condemned  criminal  might  speak 
ere  the  drop-bolts  are  drawn,  my  story,  wild  and  hide¬ 
ously  improbable  as  it  may  appear,  demands  at  least 
attention.  That  it  will  ever  receive  credence  I  utterly 
disbelieve.  Two  months  ago  I  should  have  scouted 
as  mad  or  drunk  the  man  who  had  dared  tell  me  the 
like.  Two  months  ago  I  was  the  happiest  man  in 
India.  To-day,  from  Peshawar  to  the  sea,  there  is  no 
one  more  wretched.  My  doctor  and  I  are  the  only 
two  who  know  this.  His  explanation  is,  that  my  brain, 
digestion,  and  eyesight  are  all  slightly  affected ;  giving 
rise  to  my  frequent  and  persistent  ‘delusions.’  Delu¬ 
sions,  indeed !  I  call  him  a  fool ;  but  he  attends  me 
still  with  the  same  unwearied  smile,  the  same  bland 
professional  manner,  the  same  neatly-trimmed  red 
whiskers,  till  I  begin  to  suspect  that  I  am  an  ungrate¬ 
ful,  evil-tempered  invalid.  But  you  shall  judge  for 
yourselves. 

Three  years  ago  it  was  my  fortune  —  my  great 
misfortune  —  to  sail  from  Gravesend  to  Bombay,  on 
return  from  long  leave,  with  one  Agnes  Keith- Wes- 
sington,  wife  of  an  officer  on  the  Bombay  side.  It 
does  not  in  the  least  concern  you  to  know  what  man¬ 
ner  of  woman  she  was.  Be  content  with  the  knowl¬ 
edge  that,  ere  the  voyage  had  ended,  both  she  and  I 
were  desperately  and  unreasoningly  in  love  with  one 
another.  Heaven  knows  that  I  can  make  the  admis¬ 
sion  now  without  one  particle  of  vanity.  In  matters 
of  this  sort  there  is  always  one  who  gives  and  another 


118 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


<vho  accepts.  From  the  first  day  of  our  ill-omened 
attachment,  I  was  conscious  that  Agnes’s  passion  was 
a  stronger,  a  more  dominant,  and— -if  I  may  use  the 
expression  —  a  purer  sentiment  than  mine.  Whether 
she  recognised  the  fact  then,  I  do  not  know.  After¬ 
wards  it  was  bitterly  plain  to  both  of  us. 

Arrived  at  Bombay  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  we 
went  our  respective  ways,  to  meet  no  more  for  the 
next  three  or  four  months,  when  my  leave  and  her 
love  took  us  both  to  Simla.  There  we  spent  the  season 
together ;  and  there  my  fire  of  straw  burnt  itself  out 
to  a  pitiful  end  with  the  closing  year.  I  attempt  no 
excuse.  I  make  no  apology.  Mrsc  Wessington  had 
given  up  much  for  my  sake,  and  was  prepared  to  give 
up  all.  From  my  own  lips,  in  August  1882,  she  learnt 
that  I  was  sick  of  her  presence,  tired  of  her  company, 
and  weary  of  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Ninety-nine 
women  out  of  a  hundred  would  wearied  of  me  as  I 
wearied  of  them ;  seventy-five  of  that  number  would 
have  promptly  avenged  themselves  by  active  and 
obtrusive  flirtation  with  other  men.  Mrs.  Wessing¬ 
ton  was  the  hundredth.  On  her  neither  my  openly- 
expressed  aversion  nor  the  cutting  brutalities  with 
which  I  garnished  our  interviews  had  the  least  effect. 

‘Jack,  darling!’  was  her  one  eternal  cuckoo  cry: 
6  I’m  sure  it’s  all  a  mistake  —  a  hideous  mistake  ;  and 
we’ll  be  good  friends  again  some  day.  Please  forgive 
me,  Jack,  dear.’ 

I  was  the  offender,  and  I  knew  it.  That  knowledge 
transformed  my  pity  into  passive  endurance,  and, 
eventually,  into  blind  hate  —  the  same  instinct,  I 
suppose,  which  prompts  a  man  to  savagely  stamp  on 
the  spider  he  has  but  half  killed.  And  with  this 


119 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 

hate  in  my  bosom  the  season  of  1882  came  to  an 
end. 

Next  year  we  met  again  at  Simla  — she  with  her 
monotonous  face  and  timid  attempts  at  reconciliation, 
and  I  with  loathing  of  her  in  every  fibre  of  my  frame. 
Several  times  I  could  not  avoid  meeting  her  alone  ;  and 
on  each  occasion  her  words  were  identically  the  same. 
Still  the  unreasoning  wail  that  it  was  all  a  ‘mistake’; 
and  still  the  hope  of  eventually  ‘making  friends.’  I 
might  have  seen,  had  I  cared  to  look,  that  that  hope 
only  was  keeping  her  alive.  She  grew  more  wan  and 
thin  month  by  month.  You  will  agree  with  me,  at 
least,  that  such  conduct  would  have  driven  any  one  to 
despair.  It  was  uncalled  for;  childish;  unwomanly. 
I  maintain  that  she  was  much  to  blame.  And  again, 
sometimes,  in  the  black,  fever-stricken  night-watches, 
I  have  begun  to  think  that  I  might  have  been  a  little 
kinder  to  her.  But  that  really  is  a  ‘delusion.’  I  could 
not  have  continued  pretending  to  love  her  when  I  didn’t; 
could  I  ?  It  would  have  been  unfair  to  us  both. 

Last  year  we  met  again  —  on  the  same  terms  as 
before.  The  same  weary  appeals,  and  the  same  curt 
answers  from  my  lips.  At  least  I  would  make  her  see 
how  wholly  wrong  and  hopeless  were  her  attempts  at 
resuming  the  old  relationship.  As  the  season  wore  on, 
we  fell  apart  — that  is  to  say,  she  found  it  difficult  to 
meet  me,  for  I  had  other  and  more  absorbing  interests 
to  attend  to.  When  I  think  it  over  quietly  in  my  sick¬ 
room,  the  season  of  1884  seems  a  confused  nightmare 
wherein  light  and  shade  were  fantastically  intermingled 

my  courtship  of  little  Kitty  Mannering;  my  hopes, 
doubts,  and  fears  ;  our  long  rides  together ;  my  trem¬ 
bling  avowal  of  attachment ;  her  reply ;  and  now  and 


120 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


again  a  vision  of  a  white  face  flitting  by  in  the  rick¬ 
shaw  with  the  black  and  white  liveries  I  once  watched 
for  so  earnestly  ;  the  wave  of  Mrs.  Wessington’s  gloved 
hand  ;  and,  when  she  met  me  alone,  which  was  but  sel¬ 
dom,  the  irksome  monotony  of  her  appeal.  I  loved 
Kitty  Mannering  ;  honestly,  heartily  loved  her,  and 
with  my  love  for  her  grew  my  hatred  for  Agnes.  In 
August  Kitty  and  I  were  engaged.  The  next  day  I 
met  those  accursed  ‘mag-pie’  jhampanies  at  the  back 
of  Jakko,  and,  moved  by  some  passing  sentiment  of 
pity,  stopped  to  tell  Mrs.  Wessington  everything.  She 
knew  it  already. 

‘  So  I  hear  you’re  engaged,  Jack  dear.’  Then,  with¬ 
out  a  moment’s  pause  :  ‘I’m  sure  it’s  all  a  mistake  a 
hideous  mistake.  We  shall  be  as  good  friends  some 
day,  Jack,  as  we  ever  were.’ 

My  answer  might  have  made  even  a  man  wince.  It 
cut  the  dying  woman  before  me  like  the  blow  of  a  whip. 
‘Please  forgive  me,  Jack;  I  didn’t  mean  to  make  you 
angry  ;  but  it’s  true,  it’s  true  !  ’ 

And  Mrs.  Wessington  broke  down  completely.  I 
turned  away  and  left  her  to  finish  her  journey  in  peace, 
feeling,  but  only  for  a  moment  or  two,  that  I  had  been 
an  unutterably  mean  hound.  I  looked  back,  and  saw 
that  she  had  turned  her  ’rickshaw  with  the  idea,  I  sup¬ 
pose,  of  overtaking  me. 

The  scene  and  its  surroundings  were  photographed 
on  my  memory.  The  rain-swept  sky  (we  were  at  the 
end  of  the  wet  weather),  the  sodden,  dingy  pines,  the 
muddy  road,  and  the  black  powder-riven  cliffs  formed 
a  gloomy  background  against  which  the  black  and  white 
liveries  of  th q  jhampanies^  the  yellow-panelled  rickshaw 
and  Mrs.  Wessington’s  down-bowed  golden  head  stood 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


121 

out  clearly.  She  was  holding  her  handkerchief  in  her 
left  hand  and  was  leaning  hack  exhausted  against  the 
’rickshaw  cushions.  I  turned  my  horse  up  a  bypath 
near  the  Sanjowlie-  Reservoir  and  literally  ran  away. 
Once  I  fancied  I  heard  a  faint  call  of  4  Jack  !  ’  This 
may  have  been  imagination.  I  never  stopped  to  verify 
it.  Ten  minutes  later  I  came  across  Kitty  on  horse¬ 
back  ;  and,  in  the  delight  of  a  long  ride  with  her,  forgot 
all  about  the  interview. 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Wessington  died,  and  the  inex¬ 
pressible  burden  of  her  existence  was  removed  from  my 
life.  I  went  Plainsward  perfectly  happy.  Before  three 
months  were  over  I  had  forgotten  all  about  her,  except 
that  at  times  the  discovery  of  some  of  her  old  letters 
leminded  me  unpleasantly  of  our  bygone  relationship. 
By  January  I  had  disinterred  what  was  left  of  our 
conespondence  from  among  my  scattered  belongings 
and  had  burnt  it.  At  the  beginning  of  April  of  this 
year,  1885,  I  was  at  Simla  —  semi-deserted  Simla  — 
once  more,  and  was  deep  in  lover’s  talks  and  walks  with 
Kitty.  It  was  decided  that  we  should  be  married  at 
the  end  of  June.  You  will  understand,  therefore,  that, 
loving  Kitty  as  I  did,  I  am  not  saying  too  much  when 
I  pronounce  myself  to  have  been,  at  that  time,  the 
happiest  man  in  India. 

fourteen  delightful  days  passed  almost  before  I 
noticed  their  flight.  Then,  aroused  to  the  sense  of 
what  was  proper  among  mortals  circumstanced  as  we 
were,  I  pointed  out  to  Kitty  that  an  engagement  ring 
was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  her  dignity  as  an 
engaged  girl ;  and  that  she  must  forthwith  come  to 
Hamilton’s  to  be  measured  for  one.  Up  to  that  moment, 

I  give  you  my  word,  we  had  completely  forgotten  sc 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


122 

trivial  a  matter.  To  Hamilton’s  we  accordingly  went 
on  the  15tli  of  April  1885.  Remember  that — whatever 
my  doctor  may  say  to  the  contrary  —  I  was  then  in  per¬ 
fect  health,  enjoying  a  well-balanced  mind  and  an  abso¬ 
lutely  tranquil  spirit.  Kitty  and  I  entered  Hamilton  s 
shop  together,  and  there,  regardless  of  the  order  of 
affairs,  I  measured  Kitty  for  the  ring  in  the  presence  of 
the  amused  assistant.  The  ring  was  a  sapphire  with 
two  diamonds.  We  then  rode  out  down  the  slope  that 
leads  to  the  Combermere  Bridge  and  Peliti’s  shop. 

While  my  Waler  was  cautiously  feeling  his  way  over 
the  loose  shale,  and  Kitty  was  laughing  and  chattering 
at  my  side  —  while  all  Simla,  that  is  to  say  as  much  of 
it  as  had  then  come  from  the  Plains,  was  grouped  round 
the  Reading-room  and  Peliti’s  veranda,  —  I  was  aware 
that  some  one,  apparently  at  a  vast  distance,  was  call¬ 
ing  me  by  my  Christian  name.  It  struck  me  that  I 
had  heard  the  voice  before,  but  when  and  where  I  could 
not  at  once  determine.  In  the  short  space  it  took  to 
cover  the  road  between  the  path  from  Hamilton  s  shop 
and  the  first  plank  of  the  Combermere  Bridge  I  had 
thought  over  half  a  dozen  people  who  might  have  com¬ 
mitted  such  a  solecism,  and  had  eventually  decided  that 
it  must  have  been  some  singing  in  my  ears.  Immedi¬ 
ately  opposite  Peliti’s  shop  my  eye  was  arrested  by  the 
sight  of  four  jhaunpanies  in  4 mag-pie’  livery,  pulling  a 
yellow-panelled,  cheap,  bazar  ’rickshaw.  In  a  moment 
my  mind  flew  back  to  the  previous  season  and  Mrs. 
Wessington  with  a  sense  of  irritation  and  disgust.  W as 
it  not  enough  that  the  woman  was  dead  and  done  with, 
without  her  black  and  white  servitors  reappearing  to 
spoil  the  day’s  happiness?  Whoever  employed  them 
now  I  thought  I  would  call  upon,  and  ask  as  a  personal 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


123 


favour  to  change  her  jhampanies’’  livery.  I  would  hire 
the  men  myself,  and,  if  necessary,  buy  their  coats  from 
off  their  backs.  It  is  impossible  to  say  here  what  a 
flood  of  undesirable  memories  their  presence  evoked. 

‘Kitty,’  I  cried,  ‘there  are  poor  Mrs.  Wessington’s 
jhampanies  turned  up  again!  I  wonder  who  has  them 

Q  } 

now : 

Kitty  had  known  Mrs.  Wessington  slightly  last 
season,  and  had  always  been  interested  in  the  sickly 
woman. 

‘  What  ?  Where  ?  ’  she  asked.  4 1  can’t  see  them 
anywhere.’ 

Even  as  she  spoke,  her  horse,  swerving  from  a  laden 
mule,  threw  himself  directly  in  front  of  the  advancing 
rickshaw.  I  had  scarcely  time  to  utter  a  word  of 
warning  when  to  my  unutterable  horror,  horse  and 
rider  passed  through  men  and  carriage  as  if  they  had 
been  thin  air. 

4  What’s  the  matter  ?  ’  cried  Kitty ;  4  what  made  you 
call  out  so  foolishly,  Jack?  If  I  am  engaged  I  don’t 
want  all  creation  to  know  about  it.  There  was  lots  of 
space  between  the  mule  and  the  veranda ;  and,  if  you 
think  I  can’t  ride  There !  ’ 

Whereupon  wilful  Kitty  set  off,  her  dainty  little 
head  in  the  air,  at  a  hand-gallop  in  the  direction  of 
the  Band-stand;  fully  expecting,  as  she  herself  after¬ 
wards  told  me,  that  I  should  follow  her.  What  was  the 
matter?  Nothing  indeed.  Either  that  I  was  mad  or 
drunk,  or  that  Simla  was  haunted  with  devils.  I  reined 
in  my  impatient  cob,  and  turned  round.  The  ’rickshaw 
had  turned  too,  and  now  stood  immediately  facing  me, 
near  the  left  railing  of  the  Combermere  Bridge. 

‘Jack!  Jack,  darling!’  (There  was  no  mistake 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


124 

about  the  words  this  time :  they  rang  through  my 
brain  as  if  they  had  been  shouted  in  my  ear.)  ‘It’s 
some  hideous  mistake,  I’m  sure.  Please  forgive  me, 

Jack,  and  let’s  be  friends  again. 

The  ’rickshaw-hood  had  fallen  back,  and  inside,  as  1 
hope  and  pray  daily  for  the  death  I  dread  by  night, 
sat  Mrs.  Keith- Wessington,  handkerchief  in  hand,  and 
golden  head  bowed  on  her  breast. 

How  long  I  stared  motionless  I  do  not  know. 
Finally,  I  was  aroused  by  my  syce  taking  the  Water’s 
bridle  and  asking  whether  I  was  ill.  From  the  horrible 
to  the  commonplace  is  but  a  step.  I  tumbled  off  my 
horsr  and  dashed,  half  fainting,  into  Peliti  s  for  a 
glass  of  cherry-brandy.  There  two  or  three  couples 
were  gathered  round  the  coffee-tables  discussing  the 
gossip  of  the  day.  Their  trivialities  were  more  com¬ 
forting  to  me  just  then  than  the  consolations  of  religion 
could  have  been.  I  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the 
conversation  at  once  ;  chatted,  laughed,  and  jested  with 
a  face  (when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  in  a  mirror)  as 
white  and  drawn  as  that  of  a  corpse.  Three  or  four 
men  noticed  my  condition ;  and,  evidently  setting  it 
down  to  the  results  of  over-many  pegs,  charitably 
endeavoured  to  draw  me  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
loungers.  But  I  refused  to  be  led  away.  I  wanted 
the  company  of  my  kind  —  as  a  child  rushes  into  the 
midst  of  the  dinner-party  after  a  fright  in  the  dark. 
I  must  have  talked  for  about  ten  minutes  or  so,  though 
it  seemed  an  eternity  to  me,  when  I  heard  Kitty’s  clear 
voice  outside  enquiring  for  me.  In  another  minute 
she  had  entered  the  shop,  prepared  to  upbraid  me  for 
failing  so  signally  in  my  duties.  Something  in  my 
face  stopped  her. 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


125 

4  Why,  Jack,’  she  cried,  ‘what  have  you  been  doing? 
What  has  happened  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  ’  Thus  driven  into 
a  direct  lie,  I  said  that  the  sun  had  been  a  little  too 
much  for  me.  It  was  close  upon  five  o’clock  of  a 
cloudy  April  afternoon,  and  the  sun  had  been  hidden 
all  day.  I  saw  my  mistake  as  soon  as  the  words  were 
out  of  my  mouth :  attempted  to  recover  it ;  blundered 
hopelessly  and  followed  Kitty,  in  a  regal  rage,  out  of 
doors,  amid  the  smiles  of  my  acquaintances.  I  made 
some  excuse  (I  have  forgotten  what)  on  the  score  of 
my  feeling  faint ;  and  cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  leav¬ 
ing  Kitty  to  finish  the  ride  by  herself. 

In  my  room  I  sat  down  and  tried  calmly  to  reason 
out  the  matter.  Here  was  I,  Theobald  Jack  Pansay, 
a  well-educated  Bengal  Civilian  in  the  year  of  grace 
1885,  presumably  sane,  certainly  healthy,  driven  in 
terror  from  my  sweetheart’s  side  by  the  apparition  of 
a  woman  who  had  been  dead  and  buried  eight  months 
ago.  These  were  facts  that  I  could  not  blink.  Noth¬ 
ing  was  further  from  my  thought  than  any  memory 
of  Mrs.  Wessington  when  Kitty  and  I  left  Hamilton’s 
shop.  Nothing  was  more  utterly  commonplace  than  the 
stretch  of  wall  opposite  Peliti’s.  It  was  broad  daylight. 
The  road  was  full  of  people ,  and  yet  here,  look  you,  in 
defiance  of  every  law  of  probability,  in  direct  outrage  of 
Nature’s  ordinance,  there  had  appeared  to  me  a  face 
from  the  grave. 

Kitty’s  Arab  had  gone  through  the  ’rickshaw  :  so  that 
my  first  hope  that  some  woman  marvellously  like  Mrs. 
Wessington  had  hired  the  carriage  and  the  coolies  with 
their  old  livery  was  lost.  Again  and  again  I  went  round 
this  treadmill  of  thought ;  and  again  and  again  gave  up 
baffied  and  in  despair.  The  voice  was  as  inexplicable  as 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


126 

the  apparition.  I  had  originally  some  wild  notion  of 
confiding  it  all  to  Kitty ;  of  begging  her  to  marry  me  at 
once  ;  and  in  her  arms  defying  the  ghostly  occupant  of 
the  ’rickshaw.  ‘After  all,’  I  argued,  ‘the  presence  of 
the  ’rickshaw  is  in  itself  enough  to  prove  the  existence 
of  a  spectral  illusion.  One  may  see  ghosts  of  men  and 
women,  but  surely  never  coolies  and  carriages.  The 
whole  thing  is  absurd.  Fancy  the  ghost  of  a  hillman  ! 

Next  morning  I  sent  a  penitent  note  to  Kitty,  im¬ 
ploring  her  to  overlook  my  strange  conduct  of  the  pre¬ 
vious  afternoon.  My  Divinity  was  still  very  wroth, 
and  a  personal  apology  was  necessary.  I  explained, 
with  a  fluency  born  of  night-long  pondering  over  a 
falsehood,  that  I  had  been  attacked  with  a  sudden  pal¬ 
pitation  of  the  heart  — the  result  of  indigestion.  This 
eminently  practical  solution  had  its  effect ;  and  Kitty 
and  I  rode  out  that  afternoon  with  the  shadow  of  my 
first  lie  dividing  us. 

Nothing  would  please  her  save  a  canter  round  Jakko. 
With  my  nerves  still  unstrung  from  the  previous  night 
I  feebly  protested  against  the  notion,  suggesting  Observ¬ 
atory  Hill,  Jutogh,  the  Boileaugunge  road  —  anything 
rather  than  the  Jakko  round.  Kitty  was  angry  and  a 
little  hurt  ;  so  I  yielded  from  fear  of  provoking  further 
misunderstanding,  and  we  set  out  together  towards 
Chota  Simla.  We  walked  a  greater  part  of  the  way, 
and,  according  to  our  custom,'  cantered  from  a  mile  or 
so  below  the  Convent  to  the  stretch  of  level  road  by 
the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir.  The  wretched  horses  ap¬ 
peared  to  fly,  and  my  heart  beat  quicker  and  quicker 
as  we  neared  the  crest  of  the  ascent.  My  mind  had 
been  full  of  Mrs.  Wessington  all  the  afternoon  ;  and 
every  inch  of  the  Jakko  road  bore  witness  to  our  old* 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


127 


time  walks  and  talks.  The  bowlders  were  full  of  it ; 
the  pines  sang  it  aloud  overhead  ;  the  rain-fed  tor¬ 
rents  giggled  and  chuckled  unseen  over  the  shameful 
story ;  and  the  wind  in  my  ears  chanted  the  iniquity 
aloud. 

As  a  fitting  climax,  in  the  middle  of  the  level  men 
call  the  Ladies’  Mile  the  Hoircr  was  awaiting  me.  No 
other  ’rickshaw  was  in  sight  —  only  the  four  black  and 
white  jhampanies ,  the  yellow-panelled  carriage,  and  the 
golden  head  of  the  woman  within  —  all  apparently  just 
as  I  had  left  them  eight  months  and  one  fortnight  ago  * 
For  an  instant  I  fancied  that  Kitty  must  see  what 
I  saw  —  we  were  so  marvellously  sympathetic  in  al? 
things.  Her  next  words  undeceived  me —  ‘Not  a  soul 
in  sight  !  Come  along,  Jack,  and  I’ll  race  you  to  the 
Reservoir  buildings  !  ’  Her  wiry  little  Arab  was  off 
like  a  bird,  my  Waler  following  close  behind,  and  in 
this  order  we  dashed  under  the  cliffs.  Half  a  minute 
brought  us  within  fifty  yards  of  the  ’rickshaw.  I 
pulled  my  Waler  and  fell  back  a  little.  The  ’rick¬ 
shaw  was  directly  in  the  middle  of  the  road  ;  and  once 
more  the  Arab  passed  through  it,  my  horse  following. 
‘Jack  !  Jack  dear  !  Please  forgive  me,’  rang  with  a 
wail  in  my  ears,  and,  after  an  interval :  ‘  It’s  all  a  mis¬ 
take,  a  hideous  mistake  !  ’ 

I  spurred  my  horse  like  a  man  possessed.  When  I 
turned  my  head  at  the  Reservoir  works,  the  black  and 
white  liveries  were  still  waiting  —  patiently  waiting  — 
under  the  gray  hillside,  and  the  wind  brought  me  a 
mocking  echo  of  the  words  I  had  just  heard.  Kitty 
bantered  me  a  good  deal  on  my  silence  throughout  the 
remainder  of  the  ride.  I  had  been  talking  up  till  then 
wildly  and  at  random.  To  save  my  life  I  could  not 


128 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


speak  afterwards  naturally,  and  from  Sanjowlie  to  the 

Church  wisely  held  my  tongue. 

I  was  to  dine  with  the  Mannerings  that  night,  and 
had  barely  time  to  canter  home  to  dress.  On  the  road 
to  Elysium  Hill  I  overheard  two  men  talking  together 
in  the  dusk. — 4  It’s  a  curious  thing,’  said  one,  ‘  how  com¬ 
pletely  all  trace  of  it  disappeared.  You  know  my  wife 
was  insanely  fond  of  the  woman  (never  could  see  any¬ 
thing  in  her  myself),  and  wanted  me  to  pick  up  her 
old  ’rickshaw  and  coolies  if  they  were  to  be  got  for 
love  or  money.  Morbid  sort  of  fancy  I  call  it ;  but 
I’ve  got  to  do  what  the  Memsahib  tells  me.  Would 
you  believe  that  the  man  she  hired  it  from  tells  me  that 
all  four  of  the  men  —  they  were  brothers  —  died  of 
cholera  on  the  way  to  Hardwar,  poor  devils  ;  and  the 
’rickshaw  has  been  broken  up  by  the  man  himself. 
’Told  me  he  never  used  a  dead  Memsahib’’ s  ’rickshaw. 
’Spoilt  his  luck.  Queer  notion,  wasn’t  it?  Fancy 
poor  little  Mrs.  Wessington  spoiling  any  one’s  luck 
except  her  own !  I  laughed  aloud  at  this  point ;  and 
my  laugh  jarred  on  me  as  I  uttered  it.  So  there  were 
ghosts  of  ’rickshaws  after  all,  and  ghostly  employments 
in  the  other  world  !  How  much  did  Mrs.  Wessington 
give  her  men  ?  What  were  their  hours  ?  Where  did 
they  go  ? 

And  for  visible  answer  to  my  last  question  I  saw  the 
infernal  Thing  blocking  my  path  in  the  twilight.  The 
dead  travel  fast,  and  by  short  cuts  unknown  to  ordinary 
coolies.  I  laughed  aloud  a  second  time  and  checked  my 
laughter  suddenly,  for  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  mad. 
Mad  to  a  certain  extent  I  must  have  been,  for  I  recollect 
that  I  reined  in  my  horse  at  the  head  of  the  ’rickshaw,  and 
politely  wished  Mrs.  Wessington  4  Good-evening.’  Her 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


129 


answer  was  one  I  knew  only  too  well.  I  listened  to  the 
end;  and  replied  that  I  had  heard  it  all  before,  but 
should  be  delighted  if  she  had  anything  further  to  say. 
Some  malignant  devil  stronger  than  I  must  have  entered 
into  me  that  evening,  for  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of 
talking  the  commonplaces  of  the  day  for  five  minutes 
to  the  Thing  in  front  of  me. 

‘Mad  as  a  hatter,  poor  devil  —  or  drunk.  Max,  try 
and  get  him  to  come  home.’ 

Surely  that  was  not  Mrs.  Wessington’s  voice!  The 
two  men  had  overheard  me  speaking  to  the  empty  air, 
and  had  returned  to  look  after  me.  They  were  very 
kind  and  considerate,  and  from  their  words  evidently 
gathered  that  I  was  extremely  drunk.  I  thanked  them 
confusedly  and  cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  there 
changed,  and  arrived  at  the  Mannerings’  ten  minutes 
late.  I  pleaded  the  darkness  of  the  night  as  an  excuse; 
was  rebuked  by  Kitty  for  my  unlover-like  tardiness; 
and  sat  down. 

The  conversation  had  already  become  general;  and 
under  cover  of  it,  I  was  addressing  some  tender  small 
talk  to  my  sweetheart  when  I  was  aware  that  at  the 
further  end  of  the  table  a  short  red-whiskered  man  was 
describing,  with  much  broidery,  his  encounter  with  a 
mad  unknown  that  evening. 

A  few  sentences  convinced  me  that  he  was  repeating 
the  incident  of  half  an  hour  ago.  In  the  middle  of  the 
story  he  looked  round  for  applause,  as  professional 
story-tellers  do,  caught  my  eye,  and  straightway  col¬ 
lapsed.  There  was  a  moment’s  awkward  silence,  and 
the  red-whiskered  man  muttered  something  to  the 
effect  that  he  had  ‘  forgotten  the  rest,’  thereby  sacrific¬ 
ing  a  reputation  as  a  good  story-teller  which  he  had 


130 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

built  up  for  six  seasons  past.  I  blessed  biin  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and— went  on  with  my 

fish.  , 

In  the  fulness  of  time  that  dinner  came  to  an  end; 

and  with  genuine  regret  I  tore  myself  away  from  Kitty 

—  as  certain  as  I  was  of  my  own  existence  that  It  would 

be  waiting  for  me  outside  the  door.  The  red-whiskered 

man,  who  had  been  introduced  to  me  as  Dr.  Heather- 

legh  of  Simla,  volunteered  to  bear  me  company  as  far 

as  our  roads  lay  together.  I  accepted  his  offer  with 

gratitude.  .  v 

My  instinct  bad  not  deceived  me.  It  lay  m  readi¬ 
ness  in  the  Mall,  and,  in  what  seemed  devilish  mockery 
of  our  ways,  with  a  lighted  head-lamp.  The  rec 
whiskered  man  went  to  the  point  at  once,  in  a  man¬ 
ner  that  showed  he  had  been  thinking  over  it  all 

dinner-time. 

‘  I  say,  Pansay,  what  the  deuce  was  the  matter  with 
you  this  evening  on  the  Elysium  Road  ?  ’  The  sudden¬ 
ness  of  the  question  wrenched  an  answer  from  me 

before  I  was  aware. 

‘  That  !  ’  said  I,  pointing  to  It. 

*  That  may  be  either  D.  T.  or  Eyes  for  aught  I  know. 
Now  you  don’t  liquor.  I  saw  as  much  at  dinner,  so  it 
can’t  be  D.  T.  There’s  nothing  whatever  where  you’re 
pointing,  though  you’re  sweating  and  trembling  with 
fright,  like  a  scared  pony.  Therefore,  I  conclude  that 
it’s  Eyes.  And  I  ought  to  understand  all  about  them. 
Come  along  home  with  me.  I’m  on  the  Blessington 

lower  road.’ 

To  my  intense  delight  the  'rickshaw  instead  ot  wait¬ 
ing  for  us  kept  about  twenty  yards  ahead  —  and  this, 
too,  whether  we  walked,  trotted,  or  cantered.  In  the 


TIIE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


cours<  -  of  that  long  night  ride  I  had  told  my  compam 
ion  almost  as  much  as  I  have  told  you  heie. 

4  Well,  you’ve  spoilt  one  of  the  best  tales  I’ve  ever 
laid  tongue  to,’  said  he,  4  but  I’ll  forgive  you  for  the 
sake  of  what  you’ve  gone  through.  Now  come  home 
and  do  what  I  tell  you  ;  and  when  I’ve  cured  you, 
young  man,  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  steer  clear 
of  women  and  indigestible  food  till  the  day  of  your 
death.’ 

The  rickshaw  kept  steady  in  front ;  and  my  red- 
whiskered  friend  seemed  to  derive  great  pleasure  from 
my  account  of  its  exact  whereabouts. 

4  Eyes,  Pansay  —  all  Eyes,  Brain,  and  Stomach.  And 
the  greatest  of  these  three  is  Stomach.  You’ve  too 
much  conceited  Brain,  too  little  Stomach,  and  thor¬ 
oughly  unhealthy  Eyes.  Get  your  Stomach  straight 
and  the  rest  follows.  And  all  that’s  French  for  a 
liver  pill.  1 11  take  sole  medical  charge  of  you  from 
this  hour  !  for  you’re  too  interesting  a  phenomenon 
to  be  passed  over.’ 

By  this  time  we  were  deep  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Blessington  lower  road  and  the  ’rickshaw  came  to  a 
dead  stop  under  a  pine-clad,  overhanging  shale  cliff. 
Instinctively  I  halted  too,  giving  my  reason.  Heather- 
legh  rapped  out  an  oath. 

4  Now,  if  you  think  I’m  going  to  spend  a  cold  night 
on  the  hillside  for  the  sake  of  a  Stomach-c^m-Brain- 
cum-EjQ  illusion -  Lord,  ha’  mercy !  What’s  that?’ 

There  was  a  muffled  report,  a  blinding  smother  of 
dust  just  in  front  of  us,  a  crack,  the  noise  of  rent 
boughs,  and  about  ten  yards  of  the  cliff-side  —  pines, 
undergrowth,  and  all  —  slid  down  into  the  road  below, 
completely  blocking  it  up.  The  uprooted  trees  swayed 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


132 

and  tottered  for  a  moment  like  drunken  giants  in  the 
gloom,  and  then  fell  prone  among  their  fellows  with  a 
thunderous  crash.  Our  two  horses  stood  motionless 
and  sweating  with  fear.  As  soon  as  the  rattle  of  fall¬ 
ing  earth  and  stone  had  subsided,  my  companion  mut¬ 
tered  :  4  Man,  if  we’d  gone  forward  we  should  have 
been  ten  feet  deep  in  our  graves  by  now.  “  There  are 
more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  ”...  Come  home, 
Pansay,  and  thank  God.  I  want  a  peg  badly.’ 

We  retraced  our  way  over  the  Church  Ridge,  and  I 
arrived  at  Dr.  Heatherlegh’s  house  shortly  after  mid¬ 
night. 

His  attempts  towards  my  cure  commenced  almost  im¬ 
mediately,  and  for  a  week  I  never  left  his  sight.  Many 
a  time  in  the  course  of  that  week  did  I  bless  the  good- 
fortune  which  had  thrown  me  in  contact  with  Simla  s 
best  and  kindest  doctor.  Day  by  day  my  spirits  grew 
lighter  and  more  equable.  Day  by  day,  too,  I  became 
more  and  more  inclined  to  fall  in  with  Heatherlegh’s 
4  spectral  illusion  ’  theory,  implicating  eyes,  brain,  and 
stomach.  I  wrote  to  Kitty,  telling  her  that  a  slight 
sprain  caused  by  a  fall  from  my  horse  kept  me  indoors 
for  a  few  days  ;  and  that  I  should  be  recovered  before 
she  had  time  to  regret  my  absence. 

Heatherlegh’s  treatment  was  simple  to  a  degree.  It 
consisted  of  liver  pills,  cold-water  baths,  and  strong 
exercise,  taken  in  the  dusk  or  at  early  dawn  —  for,  as 
he  sagely  observed :  4  A  man  with  a  sprained  ankle 
doesn’t  walk  a  dozen  miles  a  day,  and  your  young 
woman  might  be  wondering  if  she  saw  you. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  after  much  examination  of 
pupil  and  pulse,  and  strict  injunctions  as  to  diet  and 
pedestrianism,  Heatherlegh  dismissed  me  as  brusquely 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


133 


as  lie  had  taken  charge  of  me.  Here  is  his  parting 
benediction :  4  Man,  I  certify  to  your  mental  cure,  and 
that  s  as  much  as  to  say  I’ve  cured  most  of  your  bodily 
ailments.  Now,  get  your  traps  out  of  this  as  soon  as 
you  can  ;  and  he  off  to  make  love  to  Miss  Kitty.’ 

I  was  endeavouring  to  express  my  thanks  for  hfs 
kindness.  He  cut  me  short. 

4  Don’t  think  I  did  this  because  I  like  you.  I  gather 
that  you  ve  behaved  like  a  blackguard  all  through. 
But,  all  the  same,  you’re  a  phenomenon,  and  as  queer  a 
phenomenon  as  you  are  a  blackguard.  No!  ’ _ check¬ 

ing  me  a  second  time  — 4  not  a  rupee,  please.  Go 
out  and  see  if  you  can  find  the  eyes-brain-and-stomacli 
business  again.  I’ll  give  you  a  lakh  for  each  time  you 
see  it.’ 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  in  the  Mannerings’  draw¬ 
ing-room  with  Kitty  —  drunk  with  the  intoxication  of 
present  happiness  and  the  foreknowledge  that  I  should 
never  more  be  troubled  with  Its  hideous  presence. 
Strong  in  the  sense  of  my  new-found  security,  I  jiro- 
posed  a  ride  at  once  ;  and,  by  preference,  a  canter 
round  Jakko. 

Never  had  I  felt  so  well,  so  overladen  with  vitality 
and  mere  animal  spirits,  as  I  did  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  30th  of  April.  Kitty  was  delighted  at  the  change 
in  my  appearance,  and  complimented  me  on  it  in  her 
delightfully  frank  and  outspoken  manner.  We  left 
the  Mannerings’  house  together,  laughing  and  talking, 
and  cantered  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  as  of  old. 

I  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir  and 
there  make  my  assurance  doubly  sure.  The  horses  did 
their  best,  but  seemed  all  too  slow  to  my  impatient 
mind.  Kitty  was  astonished  at  my  boisterousness 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

‘  Why,  Jack !  ’  she  cried  at  last,  ‘you  are  behaving  like 

a  child.  What  are  you  doing  ?  ’ 

We  were  just  below  the  Convent,  and  from  sheer 

wantonness  I  was  making  my  Waler  plunge  and  curvet 
across  the  road  as  I  tickled  it  with  the  loop  of  my 


riding- whip. 

4  Doing  ?  ’  I  answered  ;  4  nothing, 
it.  If  you’d  been  doing  nothing 
lie  up,  you’d  be  as  riotous  as  I. 


dear.  That’s  just 
for  a  week  except 


<  Singing  and  murmuring  in  your  feastful  mirth, 
Joying  to  feel  yourself  alive ; 

Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  Earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five.’ 


My  quotation  was  hardly  out  of  my  lips  before  we 
had  rounded  the  corner  above  the  Convent ;  and  a  ew 
yards  further  on  could  see  across  to  Sanjowlie.  In  the 
centre  of  the  level  road  stood  the  black  and  white  nv- 
eries,  the  yellow-panelled  ’rickshaw,  and  Mrs.  Iveith- 
Wessington.  I  pulled  up,  looked,  rubbed  my  eyes, 
and,  I  believe,  must  have  said  something.  The  next 
thing  I  knew  was  that  I  was  lying  face  downward  on 
the  road,  with  Kitty  kneeling  above  me  in  tears. 

‘  Has  it  gone,  child !  ’  I  gasped.  Kitty  only  wept 

more  bitterly.  ..  , 

‘Has  what  gone,  Jack  dear?  what  does  it  all  mean. 

There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere,  Jack.  A  hideous 
mistake.’  Her  last  words  brought  me.  to  my  feet  — 
mad  —  raving  for  the  time  being.  ,  'J  I 

‘Yes,  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere,’  I  repeated,  ‘a 

hideous  mistake.  Come  and  look  at  It.’ 

I  have  an  indistinct  idea  that  I  dragged  Kitty  by 
the  wrist  along  the  road  up  to  where  It  stood,  and  im- 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW  I35 

plored  her  for  pity’s  sake  to  speak  to  It ;  to  tell  It 
that  we  were  betrothed ;  that  neither  Death  nor  Hell 
could  bieak  the  tie  between  us  :  and  Kitty  only  knows 
how  much  more  to  the  same  effect.  Now  and  again 
I  appealed  passionately  to  the  Terror  in  the  ’rickshaw 
to  bear  witness  to  all  I  had  said,  and  to  release  me 
from  a  torture  that  was  killing  me.  As  I  talked  I 
suppose  I  must  have  told  Kitty  of  my  old  relations 
with  Mrs.  Wessington,  for  I  saw  her  listen  intently 
with  white  face  and  blazing  eyes. 

4  Thank  you,  Mr,  Pansay,’  she  said,  4  that’s  quite 
enough.  Syce  ghora  Ido.' 

The  syces,  impassive  as  Orientals  always  are,  had 
come  up  with  the  recaptured  horses;  and  as  Kitty 
sprang  into  her  saddle  I  caught  hold  of  her  bridle, 
entreating  her  to  hear  me  out  and  forgive.  My  answer 
was  the  cut  of  her  riding-whip  across  my  face  from 
mouth  to  eye,  and  a  word  or  two  of  farewell  that  even 
now  I  cannot  write  down.  So  I  judged  and  judged 
rightly ,  that  Kitty  knew  all ;  and  I  staggered  back 
to  the  side  of  the  ’rickshaw.  My  face  was  cut  and 
bleeding,  and  the  blow  of  the  riding-whip  had  raised 
a  li\ id  blue  wheal  on  it.  I  had  no  self-respect.  Just 
then,  Heatherlegh,  who  must  have  been  following  Kitty 
and  me  at  a  distance,  cantered  up. 

‘Doctor,’  I  said,  pointing  to  my  face,  ‘here’s  Miss 
Mannering’s  signature  to  my  order  of  dismissal  and 
-I  11  thank  you  for  that  lakh  as  soon  as  convenient.’ 

Heatherlegh  s  face,  even  in  my  abject  misery,  moved 
me  to  laughter. 

‘I’ll  stake  my  professional  reputation - ’  he  began. 

‘Don’t  be  a  fool,’  I  whispered.  4  I’ve  lost  my  life’s 
happiness  and  you’d  better  take  me  home.’ 


136 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


As  I  spoke  tlie  ’rickshaw  was  gone.  Then  I  lost  al 
knowledge  of  what  was  passing.  The  crest  of  J akko 
seemed  to  heave  and  roll  like  the  crest  of  a  cloud  and 
fall  in  upon  me. 

Seven  days  later  (on  the  7th  of  May,  that  is  to  say) 

I  was  aware  that  I  was  lying  in  Heatherlegh’s  room  as 
weak  as  a  little  child.  Heatherlegh  was  watching  me 
intently  from  behind  the  papers  on  his  writing-table. 
His  first  words  were  not  encouraging ;  but  I  was  toe 
far  spent  to  be  much  moved  by  them. 

‘  Here’s  Miss  Kitty  has  sent  back  your  letters.  You 
corresponded  a  good  deal,  you  young  people.  Here  s  ? 
packet  that  looks  like  a  ring,  and  a  cheerful  sort  of  t 
note  from  Mannering  Papa,  which  I’ve  taken  the  lib 
erty  of  reading  and  burning.  The  old  gentleman’s  not 

pleased  with  you.’ 

‘And  Kitty?’  I  asked  dully. 

‘  Rather  more  drawn  than  her  father  from  what  she 
says.  By  the  same  token  you  must  have  been  letting 
out  any  number  of  queer  reminiscences  just  before  I  met 
you.  ’Says  that  a  man  who  would  have  behaved  to  a 
woman  as  you  did  to  Mrs.  Wessington  ought  to  kill 
himself  out  of  sheer  pity  for  his  kind.  She’s  a  hot¬ 
headed  little  virago,  your  mash.  ’Will  have  it  too  that 
you  were  suffering  from  D.  T.  when  that  row  ou  the 
Jakko  road  turned  up.  ’Says  she’ll  die  before  she  ever 
speaks  to  you  again.’ 

I  groaned  and  turned  over  on  the  other  side. 

‘Now  you’ve  got  your  choice,  my  friend.  This  en¬ 
gagement  has  to  be  broken  off  j  and  the  Mannerings 
don’t  want  to  be  too  hard  on  you.  Was  it  broken 
through  D.  T.  or  epileptic  fits  ?  Sorry  I  can’t  offer 
you  a  berter  exenange  unless  you  ci  prefer  hereditary 


13T 


THE  PHANTOM  ’KICKSHAW 

insanity.  Say  the  word  and  I’ll  tell  ’em  it’s  fits.  All 
Simla  knows  about  that  scene  on  the  Ladies’  Mile 
Come!.  I’ll  give  you  five  minutes  to  think  oyer  it.’ 

During  those  five  minutes  I  believe  that  I  explored 
thoroughly  the  lowest  circles  of  the  Inferno  which  it 
is  permitted  man  to  tread  on  earth.  And  at  the  same 
time  I  myself.  Avas  watching  myself  faltering  through 
t  le  dark  labyrinths  of  doubt,  misery,  and  utter  despair. 

I  wondered,  as  Heatherlegh  in  his  chair  might  have 
wondered,  which  dreadful  alternative  I  should  adopt. 

resently  I  heard  myself  answering  in  a  voice  that  I 
hardly  recognised  — 

‘  Tney’re  confoundedly  particular  about  morality  in 
ese  parts.  Give  ’em  fits,  Heatherlegh,  and  my  love. 
.N  ow  let  me  sleep  a  bit  longer.  ’ 

Then  my  two  selves  joined,  and  it  was  only  I  (half- 

crazed,  devil-driven  I)  that  tossed  in  my  bed  tracing 

step  by  step  the  history  of  the  past  month. 

‘But  I  am  in  Simla,’  I  kept  repeating  to  myself.  ‘I, 

Jack  Pansay,  am  in  Simla,  and  there  are  no  ghosts  here! 

It  s  unreasonable  of  that  woman  to  pretend  there  are. 

Why  couldn’t  Agnes  have  left  me  alone  ?  I  never  did 

her  any  harm.  It  might  just  as  well  have  been  me  as 

gnes.  Only  I’d  never  have  come  back  on  purpose  to 

kill  her  Why  can’t  I  be  left  alone -left  alone  and 
happy  ? 9 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  first  awoke:  and  the  sun 
was  low  m  the  sky  before  I  slept  -  slept  as  the  tortured 
criminal  sleeps  on  Ins  rack,  too  worn  to  feel  further  pain. 
-Next  day  I  could  not  leave  my  bed.  Heatherlegl 

f  d  ™  “ the  morning  that  he  had  received  an  answei 
trom  Mr  Mannering,  and  that,  thanks  to  his  (Heather- 

eg  s)  friendly  offices,  the  story  of  my  affliction  hac 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


138 

travelled  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  Simla, 
where  I  was  on  all  sides  much  pitied. 

*  And  that’s  rather  more  than  you  deserve,’  he  con¬ 
cluded  pleasantly,  4  though  the  Lord  knows  you’ve  been 
going  through  a  pretty  severe  mill.  Never  mind  ; 
we’ll  cure  you  yet,  you  perverse  phenomenon.’ 

I  declined  firmly  to  be  cured.  4  You’ve  been  much 
too  good  to  me  already,  old  man,  ’  said  I  ;  4  but  I  don’t 
think  I  need  trouble  you  further/ 

In  my  heart  I  knew  that  nothing  Heatherlegh  could 
do  would  lighten  the  burden  that  had  been  laid  upon  me. 

With  that  knowledge  came  also  a  sense  of  hopeless, 
impotent  rebellion  against  the  unreasonableness  of  it 
all.  There  were  scores  of  men  no  better  than  I  whose 
punishments  had  at  least  been  reserved  for  another 
world ;  and  I  felt  that  it  was  bitterly,  cruelly  unfair  that 
I  alone  should  have  been  singled  out  for  so  hideous  a 
fate.  This  mood  would  in  time  give  place  to  another 
where  it  seemed  that  the  ’rickshaw  and  I  were  the  only 
realities  in  a  world  of  shadows  ;  that  Kitty  was  a 
ghost ;  that  Mannering,  Heatherlegh,  and  all  the  other 
men  and  women  I  knew  were  all  ghosts  ;  and  the  great, 
gray  hills  themselves  but  vain  shadows  devised  to  tor¬ 
ture  me.  From  mood  to  mood  I  tossed  backwards  and 
forwards  for  seven  weary  days  ;  my  body  growing 
daily  stronger  and  stronger,  until  the  bedroom  look¬ 
ing-glass  told  me  that  I  had  returned  to  every-day  life, 
and  was  as  other  men  once  more.  Curiously  enough 
my  face  showed  no  signs  of  the  struggle  I  had  gone 
through.  It  was  pale  indeed,  but  as  expressionless 
and  commonplace  as  ever.  I  had  expected  some  per¬ 
manent  alteration  —  visible  evidence  of  the  disease  that 
was  eating  me  away.  I  found  nothing. 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW  I39 

On  the  15th  of  May  I  left  Heatherlegh’s  house  at 
e  even  o’clock  in  the  morning  ;  and  the  instinct  of  the 
bachelor  drove  me  to  the  Club.  There  I  found  that 
every  man  knew  my  story  as  told  by  Heatherlegh,  and 
was,  in  clumsy  fashion,  abnormally  kind  and  attentive 
Nevertheless  I  recognised  that  for  the  rest  of  my  nat¬ 
ural  life  I  should  be  among  but  not  of  my  fellows  ;  and 
I  envied  very  bitterly  indeed  the  laughing  coolies  on 
the  Mall  below.  I  lunched  at  the  Club,  and  at  four 
o  clock  wandered  aimlessly  down  the  Mall  in  the  vague 
hope  of  meeting  Kitty.  Close  to  the  Band-stand  the 
black  and  white  liveries  joined  me  ;  and  I  heard  Mrs. 
Wessington’s  old  appeal  at  my  side.  I  had  been  ex¬ 
pecting  this  ever  since  I  came  out ;  and  was  only  sur¬ 
prised  at  her  delay.  The  phantom  ’rickshaw  and  I 
went  side  by  side  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  in  silence. 
Close  to  the  bazar,  Kitty  and  a  man  on  horseback  over¬ 
took  and  passed  us.  For  any  sign  she  gave  I  might 
have  been  a  dog  in  the  road.  She  did  not  even  pay  me 
the  compliment  of  quickening  her  pace  ;  though  the 
rainy  afternoon  had  served  for  an  excuse. 

So  Kitty  and  her  companion,  and  I  and  my  ghostly 
lght-o  -Love,  crept  round  J akko  in  couples.  The 
road  was  streaming  with  water ;  the  pines  dripped  like 
roof-pipes  on  the  rocks  below,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
ne,  driving  ram.  Two  or  three  times  I  found  myself 
saying  to  myself  almost  aloud:  ‘I’m  Jack  Pansay  on 
eave  at  ^Simla— at  Simla  !  Every-day,  ordinary  Simla. 

1  mustn’t  forget  that — I  mustn’t  forget  that.’  Then  I 
would  try  to  recollect  some  of  the  gossip  I  had  heard 
at  the  Club :  the  prices  of  So-and-So’s  horses— any- 
tnng,  in  fact,  that  related  to  the  work-? -day  Anglo- 
ndian  world  I  knew  so  well.  I  even  repeated  the 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

multiplication-table  rapidly  to  myself,  to  make  quite 
sure  that  I  was  not  taking  leave  of  my  senses.  It  gave 
me  much  comfort ;  and  must  have  prevented  my  hear- 

ing  Mrs.  Wessington  for  a  time. 

Once  more  I  wearily  climbed  the  Convent  slope  and 
entered  the  level  road.  Here  Kitty  and  the  man 
started  off  at  a  canter,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  Mrs. 
Wessington.  ‘  Agnes,’  said  I,  1  will  you  put  back  your 
hood  and  tell  me  what  it  all  means?’  The  liooci 
dropped  noiselessly,  and  I  was  face  to  face  with  my 
dead  and  buried  mistress.  She  was  wearing  the  dress 
;n  which  I  had  last  seen  her  alive  ;  carried  the  same 
tiny  handkerchief  in  her  right  hand;  and  the  same 
card-case  in  her  left.  (A  woman  eight  months  dead 
with  a  card-case !)  I  had  to  pin  myself  down  to  the 
multiplication-table,  and  to  set  both  hands  on  the  stone 
parapet  of  the  road,  to  assure  myself  that  that  at  least 

was  real.  . 

4 Agnes,’  I  repeated,  ‘for  pity’s  sake  tell  me  what  it 

all  means.’  Mrs.  Wessington  leaned  forward,  with 

that  odd,  quick  turn  of  the  head  I  used  to  know  so 

well,  and  spoke. 

If  my  story  had  not  already  so  madly  overleaped  the 
bounds  of  all  human  belief  I  should  apologise  to  you 
now.  As  I  know  that  no  one— no,  not  even  Kitty,  for 
whom  it  is  written  as  some  sort  of  justification  of  my 
conduct— will  believe  me,  I  will  go  on.  Mrs.  Wes¬ 
sington  spoke  and  I  walked  with  her  from  the  Sanjowlie 
road  to  the  turning  below  the  Commander-in-Chief  s 
house  as  I  might  walk  by  the  side  of  any  living  woman’s 
’rickshaw,  deep  in  conversation.  The  second  and  most 
tormenting  of  my  moods  of  sickness  had  suddenly  laid 
hold  upon  me,  and  like  the  Prince  in  Tennyson’s  poem, 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


141 


‘I  seemed  to  move  amid  a  world  of  ghosts.’  There  had 
been  a  garden-party  at  the  Commander-in-Cliief’s,  and 
we  two  joined  the  crowd  of  homeward-bound  folk.  As 
I  saw  them  it  seemed  that  they  were  the  shadows  — 
impalpable  fantastic  shadows  —  that  divided  for  Mrs. 
Wessington’s  ’rickshaw  to  pass  through.  What  we  said 
during  the  course  of  that  weird  interview  I  cannot  — 
indeed,  I  dare  not — tell.  Heatherlegh’s  comment  would 
have  been  a  short  laugh  and  a  remark  that  I  had  been 
‘mashing  a  brain-eye-and-stomach  chimera.’  It  was  a 
ghastly  and  yet  in  some  indefinable  way  a  marvellously 
dear  experience.  Could  it  be  possible,  I  wondered,  that 
I  was  in  this  life  to  woo  a  second  time  the  woman  I  had 
killed  by  my  own  neglect  and  cruelty  ? 

I  met  Kitty  on  the  homeward  road — a  shadow  among 
shadows. 

If  I  were  to  describe  all  the  incidents  of  the  next  fort¬ 
night  in  their  order,  my  story  would  never  come  to  an 
end ;  and  your  patience  would  be  exhausted.  Morning 
after  morning  and  evening  after  evening  the  ghostly 
’rickshaw  and  I  used  to  wander  through  Simla  together. 
Wherever  I  went  there  the  four  black  and  white  liveries 
followed  me  and  bore  me  company  to  and  from  my 
hotel.  At  the  Theatre  I  found  them  amid  the  crowd  of 
yelling  jhampanies ;  outside  the  Club  veranda,  after  a 
long  evening  of  whist ;  at  the  Birthday  Ball,  waiting 
patiently  for  my  reappearance;  and  in  broad  daylight 
when  I  went  calling.  Save  that  it  cast  no  shadow,  the 
’rickshaw  was  in  every  respect  as  real  to  look  upon  as 
one  of  wood  and  iron.  More  than  once,  indeed,  I  have 
had  to  check  myself  from  warning  some  hard-riding 
friend  against  cantering  over  it.  More  than  once  I 
have  walked  down  the  Mall  deep  in  conversation  with 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


142 

Mrs.  Wessington  to  the  unspeakable  amazement  of  the 
passers-by. 

Before  I  had  .been  out  and  about  a  week  I  learned 
that  the  4  fit  ’  theory  had  been  discarded  in  favour  of 
insanity.  However,  I  made  no  change  in  my  mode  of 
life.  I  called,  rode,  and  dined  out  as  freely  as  ever. 

I  had  a  passion  for  the  society  of  my  kind  which  I  haa 
never  felt  before;  I  hungered  to  be  among  the  realities 
of  life;  and  at  the  same  time  I  felt  vaguely  unhappy 
when  I  had  been  separated  too  long  from  my  ghostly 
companion.  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to  desciibe 
my  varying  moods  from  the  15th  of  May  up  to  to-day. 

The  presence  of  the  ’rickshaw  filled  me  by  turns  with 
horror,  blind  fear,  a  dim  sort  of  pleasure,  and  utter  de¬ 
spair.  I  dared  not  leave  Simla ;  and  I  knew  that  my 
stay  there  was  killing  me.  I  knew,  moreover,  that  it 
was  my  destiny  to  die  slowly  and  a  little  every  day. 
My  only  anxiety  was  to  get  the  penance  over  as  quietly 
as  might  be.  Alternately  I  hungered  for  a  sight  of 
Kitty  and  watched  her  outrageous  flirtations  with  my 
successor — to  speak  more  accurately,  my  successors 
with  amused  interest.  She  was  as  much  out  of  my  life 
as  I  was  out  of  hers.  By  day  I  wandered  with  Mrs. 
Wessington  almost  content.  By  night  I  implored 
Heaven  to  let  me  return  to  the  world  as  I  used  to 
know  it.  Above  all  these  varying  moods  lay  the  sen¬ 
sation  of  dull,  numbing  wonder  that  the  seen  and  the 
Unseen  should  mingle  so  strangely  on  this  earth  to 
hound  one  poor  soul  to  its  grave. 

********* 
August  27.  —  Heatherlegh  has  been  indefatigable  in 
his  attendance  on  me;  and  only  yesterday  told  me  that  I 
ought  to  send  in  an  application  for  sick  leave.  An 


THE  PHANTOM  ’RICKSHAW 


143 


application  to  escape  the  company  of  a  phantom!  A 
request  that  the  Government  would  graciously  permit 
me  to  get  rid  of  five  ghosts  and  an  airy  ’rickshaw  by 
going  to  England!  Heatherlegh’s  proposition  moved 
me  to  almost  hysterical  laughter.  I  told  him  that  I 
mould  await  the  end  quietly  at  Simla;  and  I  am  sure 
mat  the  end  is  not  far  off.  Believe  me  that  I  dread  its 
advent  more  than  any  word  can  say;  and  I  torture 
myself  nightly  with  a  thousand  speculations  as  to  the 
manner  of  my  death. 

Shall  I  die  in  my  bed  decently  and  as  an  English  gen¬ 
tleman  should  die;  or,  in  one  last  walk  on  the  Mall,  will 
my  soul  be  wrenched  from  me  to  take  its  place  for  ever 
and  ever  by  the  side  of  that  ghastly  phantasm  ?  Shall 
I  return  to  my  old  lost  allegiance  in  the  next  world,  or 
shall  I  meet  Agnes  loathing  her  and  bound  to  her  side 
through  all  eternity  ?  Shall  we  two  hover  over  the  scene 
of  our  lives  till  the  end  of  Time  ?  As  the  day  of  my  death 
draws  nearer,  the  intense  horror  that  all  living  flesh 
feels  toward  escaped  spirits  from  beyond  the  grave 
grows  more  and  more  powerful.  It  is  an  awful  thing 
to  go  down  quick  among  the  dead  with  scarcely  one- 
half  of  your  life  completed.  It  is  a  thousand  times 
more  awful  to  wait  as  I  do  in  your  midst,  for  I  know 
not  what  unimaginable  terror.  Pity  me,  at  least  on 
the  score  of  my  4  delusion,’  for  I  know  you  will  never 
believe  what  I  have  written  here.  Yet  as  surely  as  ever 
a  man  was  done  to  death  by  the  Powers  of  Darkness, 

I  am  that  man. 

In  justice,  too,  pity  her.  For  as  surely  as  ever 
woman  was  killed  by  man,  I  killed  Mrs.  Wessington. 
And  the  last  portion  of  my  punishment  is  even  now 
upon  me- 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 


As  I  came  through  the  Desert  thus  it  was  — 

As  I  came  through  the  Desert. 

The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

This  story  deals  entirely  with,  ghosts.  Theie  aie, 
in  India,  ghosts  who  take  the  form  of  fat,  cold,  pobby 
corpses,  and  hide  in  trees  near  the  roadside  till  a 
traveller  passes.  Then  they  drop  upon  his  neck  and 
remain.  There  are  also  terrible  ghosts  of  women  who 
have  died  in  childbed.  These  wander  along  the  path¬ 
ways  at  dusk,  or  hide  in  the  crops  near  a  village,  and 
call  seductively.  But  to  answer  their  call  is  death  in 
this  world  and  the  next.  Their  feet  are  turned  back¬ 
wards  that  all  sober  men  may  recognise  them.  There 
are  ghosts  of  little  children  who  have  been  thrown  into 
wells.  These  haunt  well-curbs  and  the  fringes  of 
jungles,  and  wail  under  the  stars,  or  catch  women  by 
the  wrist  and  beg  to  be  taken  up  and  carried.  These 
and  the  corpse-ghosts,  however,  are  only  vernacular 
articles  and  do  not  attack  Sahibs.  No  native  ghost 
has  yet  been  authentically  reported  to  have  frightened 
an  Englishman  ;  but  many  English  ghosts  have  scared 
the  life  out  of  both  white  and  black. 

Nearly  every  other  Station  owns  a  ghost.  There  are 
0-aid  to  be  two  at  Simla,  not  counting  the  woman  who 
blows  the  bellows  at  Syree  dak-bungalow  on  the  Old 
Road  ;  Mussoorie  has  a  house  haunted  by  a  very  lively 

144 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  145 

Thing ;  a  White  Lady  is  supposed  to  do  night-watch¬ 
man  round  a  house  in  Lahore ;  Dalhousie  says  that  one 
of  her  houses  4  repeats  ’  on  autumn  evenings  all  the 
incidents  of  a  horrible  horse-and-precipice  accident; 
Murree  has  a  merry  ghost,  and,  now  that  she  has 
been  swept  by  cholera,  will  have  room  for  a  sorrowful 
one;  there  are  Officers’  Quarters  in  Mian  Mir  whose 
doors  open  without  reason,  and  whose  furniture  is 
guaranteed  to  creak,  not  with  the  heat  of  June  but 
with  the  weight  of  Invisibles  who  come  to  lounge  in 
the  chairs ;  Peshawur  possesses  houses  that  none  will 
willingly  rent;  and  there  is  something  —  not  fever  — 
wrong  with  a  big  bungalow  in  Allahabad.  The  older 
Provinces  simply  bristle  with  haunted  houses,  and 
march  phantom  armies  along  their  main  thorough¬ 
fares. 

Some  of  the  dak-bungalows  on  the  Grand  Trunk 
Road  have  handy  little  cemeteries  in  their  compound 
—  witnesses  to  the  4  changes  and  chances  of  this  mortal 
life  ’  in  the  days  when  men  drove  from  Calcutta  to  the 
Northwest.  These  bungalows  are  objectionable  places 
to  put  up  in.  They  are  generally  very  old,  alwaj^s 
dirty,  while  the  khansamah  is  as  ancient  as  the  bunga¬ 
low.  He  either  chatters  senilely,  or  falls  into  the  long 
trances  of  age.  In  both  moods  he  is  useless.  If  you 
get  angry  with  him,  he  refers  to  some  Sahib  dead  and 
buried  these  thirty  years,  and  says  that  when  he  was  in 
that  Sahib’s  service  not  a  khansamah  in  the  Province 
could  touch  him.  Then  he  jabbers  and  mows  and 
trembles  and  fidgets  among  the  dishes,  and  you  repent 
of  your  irritation. 

Not  long  ago  it  was  my  business  to  live  in  dak-bun 
galows.  I  never  inhabited  the  same  house  for  three 


146 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

nights  running,  and  grew  to  be  learned  in  the  breed. 

I  lived  in  Government-built  ones  with  red  6rick  walls 
and  rail  ceilings,  an  inventory  of  the  furniture  posted 
in  every  room,  and  an  excited  cobra  on  the  threshold 
to  give  welcome.  I  lived  in  ‘converted’  ones  — old 
houses  officiating  as  dak-bungalows  —  where  nothing 
was  in  its  proper  place  and  there  was  not  even  a  fowl 
for  dinner.  I  lived  in  second-hand  palaces  where  the 
wind  blew  through  open-work  marble  tracery  just  as 
uncomfortably  as  through  a  broken  pane.  I  lived  in 
dak-bungalows  where  the  last  entry  in  the  visitors 
book  was  fifteen  months  old,  and  where  they  slashed 
off  the  curry -kid’s  head  with  a  sword.  It  was  my  good- 
luck  to  meet  all  sorts  of  men,  from  sober  travelling 
missionaries  and  deserters  flying  from  British  Regi¬ 
ments,  to  drunken  loafers  who  threw  whiskey  bottles 
at  all  who  passed ;  and  my  still  greater  good-fortune 
just  to  escape  a  maternity  case.  Seeing  that  a  fair  pro¬ 
portion  of  the  tragedy  of  our  lives  in  India  acted  itself 
in  dak-bungalows,  I  wondered  that  I  had  met  no  ghosts. 
A  ghost  that  would  voluntarily  hang  about  a  dak-bun¬ 
galow  would  be  mad  of  course  ;  but  so  many  men  have 
died  mad  in  dak-bungalows  that  there  must  be  a  fair 

percentage  of  lunatic  ghosts. 

In  due  time  I  found  my  ghost,  or  ghosts  rather,  for 

there  were  two  of  them. 

We  will  call  the  bungalow  Katmal  dak-bungalow; 
but  that  was  the  smallest  part  of  the  horror.  A  man 
with  a  sensitive  hide  has  no  right  to  sleep  m  dak-bun¬ 
galows.  He  should  marry.  Katmal  dak-bungalow  was 
old  and  rotten  and  unrepaired.  The  floor  was  of  worn 
brick,  the  walls  were  filthy,  and  the  windows  were 
nearly  black  with  grime.  It  stood  on  a  bypath  largely 


OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  J47 

used  by  native  Sub- Deputy  Assistants  of  all  kinds, 
from  Finance  to  Forests  ;  but  real  Sahibs  were  rare’ 

he  khansamah ,  who  was  nearly  bent  double  with  old 
age,  said  so. 

When  I  arrived,  there  was  a  fitful,  undecided  rain 
on  the  face  of  the  land,  accompanied  by  a  restless  wind, 
and  every  gust  made  a  noise  like  the  rattling  of  dry 
bones  m  the  stiff  toddy-palms  outside.  The  khansamah 
completely  lost  his  head  on  my  arrival.  He  had  served 
a  Sahib  once.  Did  I  know  that  Sahib  ?  He  gave  me 
the  name  of  a  well-known  man  who  has  been  buried  for 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  showed  me  an 
ancient  daguerreotype  of  that  man  in  his  prehistoric 
youth.  I  had  seen  a  steel  engraving  of  him  at  the  head 
of  a  double  volume  of  Memoirs  a  month  before,  and  I 
felt  ancient  beyond  telling. 

The  day  shut  in  and  the  khansamah  went  to  get  me 
food.  He  did  not  go  through  the  pretence  of  calling  it 
4  khana]  man’s  victuals.  He  said  ‘ratub;  and  that 
means,  among  other  things,  ‘grub’  — dog’s  rations, 
there  was  no  insult  in  his  choice  of  the  term.  He  had 
forgotten  the  other  word,  I  suppose. 

While  he  was  cutting  up  the  dead  bodies  of  animals, 

I  settled  myself  down,  after  exploring  the  dak-bunga¬ 
low.  There  were  three  rooms,  beside  my  own,  which 
was  a  corner  kennel,  each  giving  into  the  other  through 
white  doors  fastened  with  long  iron  bars.  The 
bungalow  was  a  very  solid  one,  but  the  partition- walls 
of  the  rooms  were  almost  jerry-built  in  their  flimsiness. 

very  step  or  bang  of  a  trunk  echoed  from  my  room 
down  the  other  three,  and  every  footfall  came  back 
tremulously  from  the  far  walls.  For  this  reason  I 
shut  the  door.  There  were  no  lamps  — only  candles 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


148 

in  long  glass  shades.  An  oil  wick  was  set  in  the 
bathroom. 

For  bleak,  unadulterated  misery  that  dak-bungalow 
was  the  worst  of  the  many  that  I  had  ever  set  foot  in 
There  was  no  fireplace,  and  the  windows  would  not 
open ;  so  a  brazier  of  charcoal  would  have  been  use¬ 
less.  The  rain  and  the  wind  splashed  and  gurgled  and 
moaned  round  the  house,  and  the  toddy-palms  rattled 
and  roared.  Half  a  dozen  jackals  went  through  the 
compound  singing,  and  a  hyena  stood  afar  off  and 
mocked  them.  A  hyena  would  convince  a  Sadducee 
of  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead  —  the  worst  soit  of 
Dead.  Then  came  the  ratub  —  a  curious  meal,  half 
native  and  half  English  in  composition  —  with  the  old 
kUnmmah  babbling  behind  my  chair  about  dead  and 
gone  English  people,  and  the  wind-blown  candles  play¬ 
ing  shadow-bo-peep  with  the  bed  and  the  mosquito- 
curtains.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  dinner  and  evening 
to  make  a  man  think  of  every  single  one  of  his  past 
sins,  and  of  all  the  others  that  he  intended  to  commit 

if  lie  lived. 

Sleep,  for  several  hundred  reasons,  was  not  easy. 
The  lamp  in  the  bathroom  threw  the  most  absurd 
shadows  into  the  room,  and  the  wind  was  beginning  to 
talk  nonsense. 

Just  when  the  reasons  were  drowsy  with  blood¬ 
sucking  l  heard  the  regular  — 4  Let-us-take-and-heave- 
him-over  ’  grunt  of  doolie-bearers  in  the  compound. 
First  one  doolie  came  in,  then  a  second,  and  then  a 
third.  I  heard  the  doolies  dumped  on  the  ground, 
and  the  shutter  in  front  of  my  door  shook. 

4  That’s  some  one  trying  to  come  in,’  I  said  But 
no  one  spoke,  and  I  persuaded  myself  that  it  was  the 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 


149 


gusty  wind.  The  shutter  of  the  room  next  to  mine 
was  attacked,  flung  back,  and  the  inner  door  opened. 
‘That’s  some  Sub-Deputy  Assistant,’  I  said,  4 and  he 
has  brought  his  friends  with  him.  Now  they’ll  talk 
and  spit  and  smoke  for  an  hour.’ 

But  there  were  no  voices  and  no  footsteps.  No  one 
was  putting  his  luggage  into  the  next  room.  The 
door  shut,  and  I  thanked  Providence  that  I  was  to  be 
left  in  peace.  But  I  was  curious  to  know  where  the 
doolies  had  gone.  I  got  out  of  bed  and  looked  into  the 
darkness.  There  was  never  a  sign  of  a  doolie.  Just  as 
I  was  getting  into  bed  again,  I  heard,  in  the  next  room, 
the  sound  that  no  man  in  his  senses  can  possibly  mistake 

—  the  whir  of  a  billiard  ball  down  the  length  of  the 
slate  when  the  striker  is  stringing  for  break.  No  other 
sound  is  like  it.  A  minute  afterwards  there  was  an¬ 
other  whir,  and  I  got  into  bed.  I  was  not  frightened 

—  indeed  I  was  not.  I  was  very  curious  to  know  what 
had  become  of  the  doolies.  I  jumped  into  bed  for  that 
reason. 

Next  minute  I  heard  the  double  click  of  a  cannon, 
and  my  hair  sat  up.  It  is  a  mistake  to  say  that  hair 
stands  up.  The  skin  of  the  head  tightens  and  you 
can  feel  a  faint,  prickly  bristling  all  over  the  scalp. 
That  is  the  hair  sitting  up. 

There  was  a  whir  and  a  click,  and  both  sounds  could 
only  have  been  made  by  one  thing  —  a  billiard  ball. 

I  argued  the  matter  out  at  great  length  with  myself; 
and  the  more  I  argued  the  less  probable  it  seemed  that 
one  bed,  one  table,  and  two  chairs  — all  the  furniture 
of  the  room  next  to  mine  —  could  so  exactly  duplicate 
the  sounds  of  a  game  of  billiards.  After  another  can¬ 
non,  a  three-cushion  one  to  judge  by  the  whir,  I  argued 


150 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


no  more.  I  had  found  my  ghost  and  would  have 
given  worlds  to  have  escaped  from  that  dak-bungalow 
I  listened,  and  with  each  listen  the  game  grew  clearer 
There  was  whir  on  whir  and  click  on  click.  Some¬ 
times  there  was  a  double  click  and  a  whir  and  another 
click.  Beyond  any  sort  of  doubt,  people  were  play¬ 
ing  billiards  in  the  next  room.  And  the  next  room 
was  not  big  enough  to  hold  a  billiard  table  ! 

Between  the  pauses  of  the  wind  I  heard  the  gams 
go  forward  —  stroke  after  stroke.  I  tried  to  believe 
that  I  could  not  hear  voices  ;  but  that  attempt  was 
a  failure. 

Do  you  know  what  fear  is?  Not  ordinary  fear  of 
insult,  injury,  or  death,  but  abject,  quivering  dread  of 
something  that  you  cannot  see  —  fear  that  dries  the  inside 
of  the  mouth  and  half  of  the  throat  —  fear  that  makes 
you  sweat  on  the  palms  of  the  hands,  and  gulp  in  order 
to  keep  the  uvula  at  work?  This  is  a  fine  Fear  a 
great  cowardice,  and  must  be  felt  to  be  appreciated. 
The  very  improbability  of  billiards  in  a  dak -bungalow 
proved  the  reality  of  the  thing.  No  man— drunk  or 
sober —  could  imagine  a  game  at  billiards,  or  invent 
the  spitting  crack  of  a  4  screw  cannon.’  , 

A  severe  course  of  dak -bungalows  has  this  disadvan¬ 
tage —  it  breeds  infinite  credulity.  If  a  man  said  to  a 
confirmed  dak-bungalow-haunter :  ‘  There  is  a  corpse 
in  the  next  room,  and  there’s  a  mad  girl  in  the  next 
one,  and  the  woman  and  man  on  that  camel  have  just 
eloped  from  a  place  sixty  miles  away,5  the  hearer  would 
not  disbelieve  because  he  would  know  that  nothing  is 
too  wild,  grotesque,  or  horrible  to  happen  in  a  dak- 

bungalow. 

This  credulity,  unfortunately,  extends  to  ghosts.  A 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY  q-j 

rational  person  fresh  from  his  own  house  would  have 
turned  on  his  side  and  slept.  I  did  not.  So  surely  as 
I  was  given  up  for  a  dry  carcass  by  the  scores  of  things 
in  the  bed,  because  the  bulk  of  my  blood  was  in  my 
heart,  so  surely  did  I  hear  every  stroke  of  a  long  game 
at  billiards  played  in  the  echoing  room  behind  the  iron- 
barred  door.  My  dominant  fear  was  that  the  players 
might  want  a  marker.  It  was  an  absurd  fear  ;  because 
creatures  wlm  could  play  in  the  dark  would  be  above 
;  such  superfluities.  I  only  know  that  that  was  my 
terror ,  and  it  was  real. 

After  a  long,  long  while,  the  game  stopped,  and  the 
door  banged.  I  slept  because  I  was  dead  tired.  Other¬ 
wise  I  should  have  preferred  to  have  kept  awake.  Not 
for  everything  in  Asia  would  I  have  dropped  the  door- 
bar  and  peered  into  the  dark  of  the  next  room. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  considered  that  I  had 
done  well  and  wisely,  and  enquired  for  the  means  of 
departure. 

By  the  way,  khansamah ,’  I  said,  ‘what  were  those 
three  doolies  doing  in  my  compound  in  the  night  ?  ’ 
There  were  no  doolies,'  said  the  khansamah. 

I  went  into  the  next  room,  and  the  daylight  streamed 
through  the  open  door.  I  was  immensely  brave.  1 
would,  at  that  hour,  have  played  Black  Pool  with  the 
owner  of  the  big  Black  Pool  down  below. 

‘Has  this  place  always  been  a  dak-bungalow?'  I 
asked. 

‘No,’  said  the  khansamah.  ‘Ten  or  twenty  years 
ago,  1  have  forgotten  how  long,  it  was  a  billiard-room.’ 

‘  A  what  ?  ’ 

4  A  billiard-room  for  the  Sahibs  who  built  the  Rail¬ 
way.  I  was  khansamah  then  in  the  big  house  where  all 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


the  Railway-Sahibs  lived,  and  I  used  to  come  across 
with  brandy-$Anf&.  These  three  rooms  were  all  one,  j 
and  they  held  a  big  table  on  which  the  Sahibs  played  ; 

every  evening.  But  the  Sahibs  are  all  dead  now,  and  ( 

the  Railway  runs,  you  say,  nearly  to  Kabul.’  . 

4  Do  you  remember  anything  about  the  Sahibs  ? 

4  It  is  long  ago,  but  I  remember  that  one  Sahib,  a  fat 
man,  and  always  angry,  was  playing  here  one  night, 
and  he  said  to  me  :  44Mangal  Khan,  brandy-^am  do” 
and  I  filled  the  glass,  and  he  bent  over  the  table  to 
strike,  and  his  head  fell  lower  and  lower  till  it  hit  the  j 

table,  and  his  spectacles  came  off,  and  when  we  — the  - 

Sahibs  and  I  myself  —  ran  to  lift  him  he  was  dead.  I 
helped  to  carry  him  out.  Aha,  he  was  a  strong  Sahib! 

But  he  is  dead,  and  I,  old  Mangal  Khan,  am  still  living,  j 

by  your  favour.’ 

That  was  more  than  enough!  I  had  my  ghost  — 
a  first-hand,  authenticated  article.  I  would  write  to 
the  Society  for  Psychical  Research  —  I  would  paralyse 
the  Empire  with  the  news!  But  I  would,  first  of  all, 
put  eighty  miles  of  assessed  crop-land  between  myself 
and  that  dak-bungalow  before  nightfall.  The  Society 
might  send  their  regular  agent  to  investigate  later  on. 

I  went  into  my  own  room  and  prepared  to  pack,  after 
noting  down  the  facts  of  the  case.  As  I  smoked  I 
heard  the  game  begin  again,  —  with  a  miss  in  balk  this 

time,  for  the  whir  was  a  short  one. 

The  door  was  open,  and  I  could  see  into  the  room. 
Click  —  click!  That  was  a  cannon.  I  entered  the 
room  without  fear,  for  there  was  sunlight  within  and 
a  fresh  breeze  without.  The  unseen  game  was  going 
on  at  a  tremendous  rate.  And  well  it  might,  when 
a  restless  little  rat  was  running  to  and  fro  inside  the 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 

diiigy  ceiling-cloth,  and  a  jiiece  of  loose  window-sasli 

was  making  fifty  breaks  off  the  window-bolt  as  it 
shook  in  the  breeze  ! 

Impossible  to  mistake  the  sound  of  billiard  balls ! 
Impossible  to  mistake  the  whir  of  a  ball  over  the 
slate  !  But  I  was  to  be  excused.  Even  when  I  shut 

ni}  enlightened  eyes  the  sound  was  marvellously  like 
that  of  a  fast  g’arne. 

Entered  angrily  the  faithful  partner  of  my  sorrows 
Kadir  Baksh. 

‘  J  his  bungalow  is  very  bad  and  low-caste !  No 
wonder  the  Presence  was  disturbed  and  is  speckled. 
Three  sets  of  doolie-bearers  came  to  the  bungalow 
late  last  night  when  I  was  sleeping  outside,  and  said 
that  it  was  their  custom  to  rest  in  the  rooms  set 
apart  for  the  English  people  !  What  honour  has  the 
khansamah  f  They  tried  to  enter,  but  I  told  them  to 
go.  No  wonder,  if  these  Oorias  have  been  here,  that 
the  Presence  is  sorely  spotted.  It  is  shame,  and  the 
work  of  a  dirty  man  !  ’ 

Ivadir  Baksli  did  not  say  that  lie  had  taken  from 
each  gang  two  annas  for  rent  in  advance,  and  then, 
beyond  my  earshot,  had  beaten  them  with  the  bk>’ 
green  umbrella  whose  use  I  could  never  before  divine. 
But  Kadir  Baksh  has  no  notions  of  morality. 

There  was  an  interview  with  the  khansamah ,  but  as 
he  promptly  lost  his  head,  wrath  gave  place  to  pity,  and 
pity  led  to  a  long  conversation,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  put  the  fat  Engineer-Sahib’s  tragic  death  in  three 
separate  stations  —  two  of  them  fifty  miles  away.  The 
third  shift  was  to  Calcutta,  and  there  the  Sahib  died 
while  driving  a  dog-cart. 

I  did  not  go  away  as  soon  as  I  intended.  I  stayed 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


154 

for  the  night,  while  the  wind  and  the  rat  and  the  sash 
and  the  window-bolt  played  a  ding-dong  ‘  hundred  and 
fifty  up.’  Then  the  wind  ran  out  and  the  billiards 
stopped,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  ruined  my  one  genuine 
ghost  story. 

Had  I  only  ceased  investigating  at  the  proper  time 
T  could  have  made  anything  out  of  it. 

That  was  the  bitterest  thought  of  all  I 


THE  TRACK  OF  A  LIE1 


4  Consequences  of  our  acts  eternal?  Bosh!’  said 
Blawkins,  at  the  Club.  4  That’s  what  the  Padres  say. 
See,  now!  ’  The  smoking  room  was  empty,  except  for 
Blawkins  and  myself.  4  I’ll  tell  you  an  idiotic  little 
superstition  I  picked  up  the  other  day,’  said  he.  4  The 
natives  say  that  Allah  allows  the  tiger  one  rupee  eight 
annas  a  day  for  his  food;  and  if  you  total  up  the 
month’s  cattle  bill  of  an  average  tiger,  not  a  man- 
eater,  you’ll  find  that  it’s  exactly  forty-five  rupees  per 
mensem .’ 

4 1  know  that,’  said  I.  4  And  it  happens  to  be 
true.’ 

‘Very  good,’  said  Blawkins.  4  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  anything  is  going  to  come  of  an  idle  sentence 
like  that?  I  say  it.  You  hear  it.  Well?  ’  Blawkins 
swung  out  of  the  Club,  leaving  me  vanquished. 

But  the  statement  rang  in  my  head.  There  was 
something  catching  about  the  words,  ‘Allah  allows 
the  tiger  one  rupee  eight  annas  a  day  for  his  food.’ 
It  was  a  quaint  superstition,  and  one  not  generally 
known.  Would  the  local  paper  care  for  it?  It  fitted 
a  corner,  empty  for  the  moment ;  and  one  or  two 
readers  said,  4  What  a  curious  idea!  ’ 

That  the  tiny  paragraph  should  have  wandered  to 
Southern  India  was  not  very  strange,  though  there  was 


1  Copyright,  1895,  by  Macmillan  &  Co. 

155  _ 


156 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


no  reason  why  it  should  not  have  trickled  to  the  Bom- 
bay  side,  instead  of  dropping  straight  as  a  plummet  to 
Madras.  That  it  should  have  jumped  Adam’s  Bridge, 
and  been  copied  in  a  Ceylon  journal,  was  strange ;  but 
Blawkins  had  been  transferred  to  the  other  end  of  the 
Empire,  just  two  days  before  the  Ceylon  papers  told 
their  cinchona  planters  that  ‘  Allah  allows  the  tiger  one 

rupee  eight  annas  a  day,  etc. 

Three  weeks  passed,  and  from  the  eastern  side  of 
the  Bay  of  Bengal  came  in  the  Burma  mail.  Boh 
Ottima  was  dead,  and  the  Field  Force  was  hard 
worked ;  Mandalay  was  suffering  from  cholera,  hut  at 
the  bottom  of  the  last  page  the  rest  of  the  world 
might  read  that  ‘Allah  allows  the  tiger,’  etc.  Blaw¬ 
kins  was  on  duty  in  the  Bolan,  very  sick  with  fever. 
It  was  not  worth  while  to  follow  him  with  a  letter. 

Week  by  week  Europe  grew  to  be  a  hornet-hive, 
throbbing  and  humming  angrily,  as  the  messages 
pulsed  through  the  wires.  Then  Singapur  reported 
that  ‘Allah  allows  the  tiger,’  etc.  Here,  assuredly, 
was  the  limit  of  my  paragraph’s  wandering.  It  might 
struggle  into  the  Malayan  Archipelago,  but  beyond  that 
scattered  heap  of  islands  it  could  not  pass. 

Germany  called  for  more  men;  France  answered 
the  call  with  fresh  battalions  on  her  side;  and  the 
strangely  scented,  straw -hued  journals  of  Shanghai 
and  Yokohama  made  public  to  the  Far  East  the  news 
that  ‘  Allah  allows  the  tiger,’  etc.  Blawkins,  now  at 
Poona,  was  desperately  in  love  with  a  Miss  Blandyre. 
What  were  paragraphs  to  a  passionate  lover  ?  I  never 
sent  him  a  line,  though  he  bombarded  me  with  a  very 
auctioneer’s  catalogue  of  Miss  Blandyre’s  charms. 
What  would  my  paragraph  do  ?  It  had  reached  the 


THE  TRACK  OF  A  LIE 


157 


open  Pacific  now,  and  must  surely  drown  in  five  thou¬ 
sand  miles  of  black  water.  After  all,  it  had  lived 
long. 

Yet,  I  had  presentiments,  and  waited  anxiously  for 
what  might  come.  The  flying  keel  stayed  at  the 
Golden  Gate,  where  the  sea-lions  romp  and  gurgle 
and  bask  :  Europe  shook  with  the  tread  of  armed 
men,  but  —  where  was  my  paragraph  ?  In  America  — 
for  San  Francisco  wished  to  know,  if  ‘Allah  allowed 
the  tiger,’  etc.,  how  much  a  Los  Angeles  hotel-keeper 
would  be  justified  in  charging  a  millionnaire  with 
delirium  tremens?  Would  Eastern  America  accept  it? 
The  paragraph  touched  Salt  Lake  City;  and  thence¬ 
forward,  straight  as  a  homeward-bound  bee,  headed 
New  York-wards.  They  took  it;  they  cut,  chipped, 
chopped,  laughed ;  were  ribald,  pious,  profane,  cynical, 
and  frankly  foolish  over  it ;  but,  as  though  it  were 
under  a  special  and  mysterious  protection  of  Provi¬ 
dence,  it  returned,  always,  to  its  original  shape.  It  ran . 
southward  into  New  Orleans,  northward  to  Toronto ; 
and  week  after  week  the  weather-beaten  exchanges 
recorded  its  eastward  progress.  Boston  appreciated  it 
as  something  perfectly  original ;  and  at  last,  as  a  lone 
light  dies  on  an  extreme  headland,  Philadelphia  sent 
back  the  news  that  the  Emperor  William  was  dead, 
and  4  Allah  allows  the  tiger,’  etc.  But  Blawkins  had, 
long  ago,  wedded  Miss  Blandyre.  What  was  the  use 
of  writing  to  him  ?  The  main  point  of  existence  was, 
whether  the  paragraph  could  come  over  the  Atlantic 
to  the  West  Coast  of  England,  where  the  country 
papers  were  lichened  with  the  growth  of  local  politics. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  I  feared  that  my  para¬ 
graph  was  dead.  But  I  did  it  an  injustice.  Over  the 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


158 

foaming  surf  of  the  local  Government  Bill,  through  the 
rapids  of  compensation  to  publicans,  in  the  teeth  of  the 
current  of  Mr.  Gladstone’s  appeals  to  the  free  and  enlight¬ 
ened  electors  of  Wales,  came  my  paragraph  —  for 
Birmingham  found  room  for  the  announcement  that 
‘Allah  allows  the  tiger,’  etc.  Blawkins  sent  an  an¬ 
nouncement  also.  It  cost  him  two  rupees,  was  a  purely 
local  matter,  and  ended  up  with  the  words  ‘of  a  son.’ 
But  the  paragraph  was  Imperial  —  nay,  Universal.  I 
felt  safe,  for  there  was  one  journal  in  London  whom 
nothing  unusual,  or  alas,  unclean,  ever  escaped.  I 
waited  with  confidence  the  arrival  of  the  Yellow  Wrap¬ 
per.  When  the  mails  came  in,  the  Bombay  papers  had 
already  quoted  and  commended  to  the  notice  of  the 
Bombay  Zoological  Society  the  curious  statement 
hailing  from  England  in  the  Yellow  Wrapper  that 
‘  Allah  allows  the  tiger,’  etc.!  The  circuit  was  com¬ 
plete;  and  as  the  shears  snipped  out  the  announcement, 
before  putting  it  afresh  into  the  very  cradle  in  which  it 
had  been  born  fifteen  months  and  six  days  before,  I 
felt  that  I  had  shaken  hands  with  the  whole  round 
world.  My  paragraph  had  come  home  indeed ! 

********* 

Tenderly  as  a  mother  shows  the  face  of  her  sleeping 
child,  I  led  Blawkins  through  the  paper-cuttings,  and 
step  by  step  pointed  out  the  path  of  the  paragraph, 
liis  lower  jaw  dropped.  ‘By  Jove!’  said  he,  ‘I  was 
wrong  —  it  should  have  been  a  rupee  —  one  rupee  only 

—  not  one  eight.’ 

‘  Then,  Blawkins,’  said  I,  ‘  you  have  swindled  the 
whole  wide  world  of  the  sum  of  eight  annas,  nominally 
one  shilling. 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MORROWBIE 

JUKES 


Alive  or  dead  —  there  is  no  other  way.  — Native  Proverb. 

There  is  no  invention  about  this  tale.  Jukes  by 
accident  stumbled  upon  a  village  that  is  well  known  to 
exist,  though  he  is  the  only  Englishman  who  has  been 
there.  A  somewhat  similar  institution  used  to  flourish 
on  the  outskirts  of  Calcutta,  and  there  is  a  story  that 
if  you  go  into  the  heart  of  Bikanir,  which  is  in  the  heart 
of  the  Great  Indian  Desert,  you  shall  come  across  not  a 
village  but  a  town  where  the  Dead  who  did  not  die  but 
may  not  live  have  established  their  headquarters.  And, 
since  it  is  perfectly  true  that  in  the  same  Desert  is  a 
wonderful  city  where  all  the  rich  money-lenders  retreat 
after  they  have  made  their  fortunes  (fortunes  so  vast 
that  the  owners  cannot  trust  even  the  strong  hand  of 
the  Government  to  protect  them,  but  take  refuge  in 
the  waterless  sands),  and  drive  sumptuous  C-spring 
barouches,  and  buy  beautiful  girls  and  decorate  their 
palaces  with  gold  and  ivory  and  Minton  tiles  and 
mother-o’-pearl,  I  do  not  see  why  Jukes’s  tale  should 
not  be  true.  He  is  a  Civil  Engineer,  with  a  head  for 
plans  and  distances  and  things  of  that  kind,  and  he  cer¬ 
tainly  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  invent  imaginary 
traps.  He  could  earn  more  by  doing  his  legitimate 
work.  He  never  varies  the  tale  in  the  telling,  and 
grows  very  hot  and  indignant  when  he  thinks  of  the 

159 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


160 

disrespectful  treatment  he  received.  He  wrote  this 
quite  straightforwardly  at  first,  hut  he  has  touched 
it  up  in  places  and  introduced  Moral  Reflections : 

thus :  — 

In  the  beginning  it  all  arose  from  a  slight  attack  of 
fever.  My  work  necessitated  my  being  in  camp  for 
some  months  between  Pakpattan  and  Mubarakpur  a 
desolate  sandy  stretch  of  country  as  every  one  who  has 
had  the  misfortune  to  go  there  may  know.  My  coolies 
were  neither  more  nor  less  exasperating  than  other 
gangs,  and  my  work  demanded  sufficient  attention  to 
keep  me  from  moping,  had  I  been  inclined  to  so  un- 
manly  a  weakness. 

On  the  23rd  December  1884,  I  felt  a  little  feverish. 
There  was  a  full  moon  at  the  time,  and,  in  consequence, 
every  dog  near  my  tent  was  baying  it.  The  brutes 
assembled  in  twos  and  threes  and  drove  me  frantic.  A 
few  days  previously  I  had  shot  one  loud-mouthed  singer 
and  suspended  his  carcass  in  terrorem  about  fifty  yards 
from  my  tent-door,  but  his  friends  fell  upon,  fought  for, 
and  ultimately  devoured  the  body :  and,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  sang  their  hymns  of  thanksgiving  afterwards 

with  renewed  energy. 

The  light-headedness  which  accompanies  fever  acts 
differently  on  different  men.  My  irritation  gave  way, 
after  a  short  time,  to  a  fixed  determination  to  slaughter 
one  huge  black  and  white  beast  who  had  been  foremost 
in  song  and  first  in  flight  throughout  the  evening. 
Thanks  to  a  shaking  hand  and  a  giddy  head  I  had 
already  missed  him  twice  with  both  barrels  of  my  shot¬ 
gun,  when  it  struck  me  that  my  best  plan  would  be  to 
fide  him  down  in  the  open  and  finish  him  off  with  a 
nog-spear.  This,  of  course,  was  merely  the  semhdelir 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


161 


ious  notion  of  a  fever-patient ;  but  I  remember  that  it 
struck  me  at  the  time  as  being  eminently  practical  and 
feasible. 

I  therefore  ordered  my  groom  to  saddle  Pornic  and 
bring  him  round  quietly  to  the  rear  of  my  tent.  When 
the  pony  was  ready,  I  stood  at  his  head  prepared  to 
mount  and  dash  out  as  soon  as  the  dog  should  again  lift 
up  his  voice.  Pornic,  by  the  way,  had  not  been  out  of 
his  pickets  for  a  couple  of  days  ;  the  night  air  was  crisp 
and  chilly ;  and  I  was  armed  with  a  specially  long  and 
sharp  pair  of  persuaders  with  which  I  had  been  rousing 
a  sluggish  cob  that  afternoon.  You  will  easily  believe, 
then,  that  when  he  was  let  go  he  went  quickly.  In  one 
moment,  for  the  brute  bolted  as  straight  as  a  die,  the 
tent  was  left  far  behind,  and  we  were  flying  over  the 
smooth  sandy  soil  at  racing  speed.  In  another  we  had 
passed  the  wretched  dog,  and  I  had  almost  forgotten 
why  it  was  that  I  had  taken  horse  and  hog-spear. 

The  delirium  of  fever  and  the  excitement  of  rapid 
motion  through  the  air  must  have  taken  away  the  rem¬ 
nant  of  my  senses.  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  stand- 
ing  upright  in  my  stirrups,  and  of  brandishing  my 
hog-spear  at  the  great  white  Moon  that  looked  down 
so  calmly  on  my  mad  gallop  ;  and  of  shouting  chal¬ 
lenges  to  the  camelthorn  bushes  as  they  whizzed  past. 
Once  or  twice,  I  believe,  I  swayed  forward  on  Pornic’s 
neck,  and  literally  hung  on  by  my  spurs  —  as  the  marks 
next  morning  showed. 

The  wretched  beast  went  forward  like  a  thing  pos¬ 
sessed,  over  what  seemed  to  be  a  limitless  expanse  of 
moonlit  sand.  Next,  I  remember,  the  ground  rose  sud¬ 
denly  in  front  of  us,  and  as  we  topped  the  ascent  I  saw 
the  waters  cf  the  Sutlej  shining  like  a  silver  bar  below. 

«i 


162 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Then  Pornic  blundered  heavily  on  his  nose.,  and  we  j 
rolled  together  down  some  unseen  slope.  j 

I  must  have  lost  consciousness,  for  when  I  recovered 
I  was  lying  on  my  stomach  in  a  heap  of  soft  white  sand,  ^ 
and  the  dawn  was  beginning  to  break  dimly  over  the  I 

edge  of  the  slope  down  which  I  had  fallen.  As  the 
light  grew  stronger  I  saw  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  a 
horseshoe-shaped  crater  of  sand,  opening  on  one  side 
directly  on  to  the  shoals  of  the  Sutlej.  My  fever  had 
altogether  left  me,  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  slight 
dizziness  in  the  head,  I  felt  no  bad  effects  from  the  fall 

over  night. 

Pornic,  who  was  standing  a  few  yards  away,  was 
naturally  a.  good  deal  exhausted,  but  had  not  huit  him¬ 
self  in  the  least.  His  saddle,  a  favourite  polo  one,  was  * 
much  knocked  about,  and  had  been  twisted  under  his 
belly.  It  took  me  some  time  to  put  him  to  rights,  and 
in  the  meantime  I  had  ample  opportunities  of  observing  i 
the  spot  into  which  I  had  so  foolishly  dropped.  j 

At  the  risk  of  being  considered  tedious,  I  must 
describe  it  at  length ;  inasmuch  as  an  accurate  mental 
picture  of  its  peculiarities  will  be  of  material  assistance 
in  enabling  the  reader  to  understand  what  follows. 

Imagine  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  a  horseshoe¬ 
shaped  crater  of  sand  with  steeply  graded  sand  walls 
about  thirty-five  feet  high.  (The  slope,  I  fancy,  must 
have  been  about  65°. )  This  crater  enclosed  a  level 
piece  of  ground  about  fifty  yards  long  by  thirty  at  its 
broadest  part,  with  a  rude  well  in  the  centre.  Round 
the  bottom  of  the  crater,  about  three  feet  from  the 
level  of  the  ground  proper,  ran  a  series  of  eighty-three 
semicircular,  ovoid,  square,  and  multilateral  holes,  all 
about  three  feet  at  the  mouth.  Each  hole  on  inspection 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


163 


showed  that  il  was  carefully  shored  internally  with, 
drift-wood  and  bamboos,  and  over  the  mouth  a  wooden 
drip-board  projected,  like  the  peak  of  a  jockey’s  cap, 
for  two  feet.  No  sign  of  life  was  visible  in  these 
tunnels,  but  a  most  sickening  stench  pervaded  the 
entire  amphitheatre  —  a  stench  fouler  than  any  which 
my  wanderings  in  Indian  villages  have  introduced 
me  to. 

Having  remounted  Pornic,  who  was  as  anxious  as 
I  to  get  back  to  camp,  I  rode  round  the  base  of  the 
horseshoe  to  find  some  place  whence  an  exit  would 
be  practicable.  The  inhabitants,  whoever  they  might 
be,  had  not  thought  fit  to  put  in  an  appearance,  so 
I  was  left  to  my  own  devices.  My  first  attempt  to 
‘rush’  Pornic  up  the  steep  sand-banks  showed  me  that 
I  had  fallen  into  a  trap  exactly  on  the  same  model  as 
that  which  the  ant-lion  sets  for  its  prey.  At  each 
step  the  shifting  sand  poured  down  from  above  in 
tons,  and  rattled  on  the  drip-boards  of  the  holes  like 
small  shot.  A  couple  of  ineffectual  charges  sent  us 
both  rolling  down  to  the  bottom,  half  choked  with  the 
torrents  of  sand  ;  and  I  was  constrained  to  turn  my 
attention  to  the  river-bank. 

Here  everything  seemed  easy  enough.  The  sand 
hills  ran  down  to  the  river  edge,  it  is  true,  but  there 
were  plenty  of  shoals  and  shallows  across  which  I 
could  gallop  Pornic,  and  find  my  way  back  to  terra 
firma  by  turning  sharply  to  the  right  or  the  left.  As 
I  led  Pornic  over  the  sands  I  was  startled  by  the  faint 
pop  of  a  rifle  across  the  river  ;  and  at  the  same  mo¬ 
ment  a  bullet  dropped  with  a  sharp  ‘  whit ’  close  to 
Pornic’s  head. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the  missile 


164 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

—  a  regulation  Martini-Henry  ‘picket*’  About  five 
hundred  yards  away  a  country-boat  was  anchored  in 
midstream  ;  and  a  jet  of  smoke  drifting  away  from 
its  bows  in  the  still  morning  air  showed  me  whence 
the  delicate  attention  had  come.  Was  ever  a  respect¬ 
able  gentlemen  in  such  an  impasse  ?  The  treacherous  j 
sand  slope  allowed  no  escape  from  a  spot  which  I  had 
visited  most  involuntarily,  and  a  promenade  on  the 
river  frontage  was  the  signal  for  a  bombardment  from  I 
some  insane  native  in  a  boat.  I’m  afraid  that  I  lost  my  j 
temper  very  much  indeed. 

Another  bullet  reminded  me  that  I  had  better  save  j 
my  breath  to  cool  my  porridge  ;  and  I  retreated  hastily 
up  the  sands  and  back  to  the  horseshoe,  where  I  saw 
that  the  noise  of  the  rifle  had  drawn  sixty-five  human  i 
beings  from  the  badger-holes  which  I  had  up  till  that  j 

point  supposed  to  be  untenanted.  I  found  myself  m  J 

the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  spectators  —  about  forty  men, 
twenty  women,  and  one  child  who  could  not  have  been 
more  than  five  years  old.  They  were  all  scantily 
clothed  in  that  salmon  coloured  cloth  which  one  asso¬ 
ciates  with  Hindu  mendicants,  and,  at  first  sight,  gave 
/ne  the  impression  of  a  band  of  loathsome  fakirs. 

The  filth  and  repulsiveness  of  the  assembly  were  be¬ 
yond  all  description,  and  I  shuddered  to  think  what 
their  life  in  the  badger-holes  must  be. 

Even  in  these  days,  when  local  self-government  has 
destroyed  the  greater  part  of  a  native’s  respect  for 
a  Sahib,  I  have  been  accustomed  to  a  certain  amount 
of  civility  from  my  inferiors,  and  on  approaching  the 
crowd  naturally  expected  that  there  would  be  some 
recognition  of  my  presence.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there 
was;  but  it  was  by  no  means  what  I  had  looked  for, 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


165 


The  ragged  crew  actually  laughed  at  me  —  such 
laughter  I  hope  I  may  never  hear  again.  They  cac¬ 
kled,  yelled,  whistled,  and  howled  as  I  walked  into 
their  midst;  some  of  them  literally  throwing  themselves 
down  on  the  ground  in  convulsions  of  unholy  mirth. 
In  a  moment  I  had  let  go  Pornic’s  head,  and,  irritated 
beyond  expression  at  the  morning’s  adventure,  com¬ 
menced  cuffing  those  nearest  to  me  with  all  the  force 
I  could.  The  wretches  dropped  under  my  blows  like 
nine-pins,  and  the  laughter  gave  place  to  wails  for 
mercy ;  while  those  yet  untouched  clasped  me  round 
the  knees,  imploring  me  in  all  sorts  of  uncouth  tongues 
to  spare  them. 

In  the  tumult,  and  just  when  I  was  feeling  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself  for  having  thus  easily  given  way  to 
my  temper,  a  thin,  high  voice  murmured  in  English 
from  behind  my  shoulder:  ‘Sahib!  Sahib!  Do  you 
not  know  me  ?  Sahib,  it  is  Gunga  Dass,  the  telegraph- 
master.’ 

I  spun  round  quickly  and  faced  the  speaker. 

Gunga  Dass  (I  have,  of  course,  no  hesitation  in  men¬ 
tioning  the  man  s  real  name)  I  had  known  four  years 
before  as  a  Deccanee  Brahmin  lent  by  the  Punjab  Gov¬ 
ernment  to  one  of  the  Khalsia  States.  He  was  in  charge 
of  a  branch  telegraph-office  there,  and  when  I  had  last 
met  him  was  a  jovial,  full-stomached,  portly  Government 
servant  with  a  marvellous  capacity  for  making  bad  puns 
in  English  —  a  peculiarity  which  made  me  remember 
him  long  after  I  had  forgotten  his  services  to  me  in 
his  official  capacity.  It  is  seldom  that  a  Hindu  makes 
English  puns. 

Now,  however,  the  man  was  changed  beyond  all  recog¬ 
nition.  Caste-mark,  stomach,  slate-coloured  continua- 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


166 

tions,  and  unctuous  speech  were  all  gone.  I  looked  at  a 
withered  skeleton,  turbanless  and  almost  naked,  with 
long  matted  hair  and  deep-set  codfish-eyes.  But  for  a 
crescent-shaped  scar  on  the  left  cheek — the  result  of  an 
accident  for  which  I  was  responsible  —  I  should  never 
have  known  him.  But  it  was  indubitably  Gunga  Dass, 

an,l _ for  this  I  was  thankful  —  an  English-speaking 

native  who  might  at  least  tell  me  the  meaning  of  all 

that  I  had  gone  through  that  day. 

The  crowd  retreated  to  some  distance  as  I  turnea 
towards  the  miserable  figure,  and  ordered  him  to  show 
me  some  method  of  escaping  from  the  crater.  He  held 
a  freshly-plucked  crow  in  his  hand,  and  in  reply  to  my 
question  climbed  slowly  on  a  platform  of  sand  which 
ran  in  front  of  the  holes,  and  commenced  lighting  a  fire 
there  in  silence.  Dried  bents,  sand-poppies,  and  drift¬ 
wood  burn  quickly  ;  and  I  derived  much  consolation 
from  the  fact  that  he  lit  them  with  an  ordinary  sulphur 
match.  When  they  were  in  a  bright  glow,  and  the 
crow  was  neatly  spitted  in  front  thereof,  Gunga  Dass 

began  without  a  word  of  preamble. 

t  There  are  only  two  kinds  of  men,  Sar.  The  alive 
and  the  dead.  When  yon  are  dead  you  are  dead,  but 
when  you  are  alive  you  live.’  (Here  the  crow  de¬ 
manded  his  attention  for  an  instant  as  it  twirled  before 
the  fire  in  danger  of  being  burnt  to  a  cinder.)  4  If  you 
die  at  home  and  do  not  die  when  you  come  to  the  ghat 

to  be  burnt  you  come  here.’ 

The  nature  of  the  reeking  village  was  made  plain 

now,  and  all  that  I  had  known  or  read  of  the  grotesque 
and  the  horrible  paled  before  the  fact  just  communi¬ 
cated  by  the  ex-Brahmin.  Sixteen  years  ago,  when  I 
first  landed  in  Bombay,  I  had  been  told  by  a  wandering 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


167 

Armenian  of  the  existence,  somewhere  in  India,  of  a 
place  to  which  such  Hindus  as  had  the  misfortune  to 
recover  from  trance  or  catalepsy  were  conveyed  and 
kept,  and  I  recollect  laughing  heartily  at  what  I  was 
then  pleased  to  consider  a  traveller’s  tale.  Sitting  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sand-trap,  the  memory  of  Watson’s 
Hotel,  with  its  swinging  punkahs,  white-robed  servants 
and  the  sallow-faced  Armenian,  rose  up  in  my  mind  as 
vividly  as  a  photograph,  and  I  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of 
laughter.  The  contrast  was  too  absurd ! 

Gunga  Dass,  as  he  bent  over  the  unclean  bird, 
watched  me  curiously.  Hindus  seldom  laugh,  and  his 
surroundings  were  not  such  as  to  move  him  that  way. 
He  removed  the  crow  solemnly  from  the  wooden  spit 
and  as  solemnly  devoured  it.  Then  he  continued  his 
story,  which  I  give  in  his  own  words:  — 

4  In  epidemics  of  the  cholera  you  are  carried  to  be 
burnt  almost  before  you  are  dead.  When  you  come  to 
the  riverside  the  cold  air,  perhaps,  makes  you  alive, 
and  then,  if  you  are  only  little  alive,  mud  is  put  on 
your  nose  and  mouth  and  you  die  conclusively.  If  you 
are  rather  more  alive,  more  mud  is  put;  but  if  you  are 
too  lively  they  let  you  go  and  take  you  away.  I  was 
too  lively,  and  made  protestation  with  anger  against 
the  indignities  that  they  endeavoured  to  press  upon  me. 
In  those  days  I  was  Brahmin  and  proud  man.  Now  I 
am  dead  man  and  eat  ’—here  he  eyed  the  well-gnawed 
breast  bone  with  the  first  sign  of  emotion  that  I  had 
seen  in  him  since  we  met  — 4  crows,  and — other  things. 
They  took  me  from  my  sheets  when  they  saw  that  I 
was  too  lively  and  gave  me  medicines  for  one  week, 
and  I  survived  successfully.  Then  they  sent  me  by 
rail  from  my  place  to  Okara  Station,  with  a  man  to 


168 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


take  care  of  me;  and  at  Okara  Station  we  met  two  other 
men,  and  they  conducted  we  three  on  camels,  in  the 
night,  from  Okara  Station  to  this  place,  and  they  pro¬ 
pelled  me  from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  and  the  other 
two  succeeded,  and  I  have  been  here  ever  since  two 
and  a  half  years.  Once  I  was  Brahmin  and  proud 
man,  and  now  I  eat  crows.’ 

4  There  is  no  way  of  getting  out  ?  ’ 

‘None  of  what  kind  at  all.  When  I  first  came  I 
made  experiments  frequently  and  all  the  others  also, 
but  we  have  always  succumbed  to  the  sand  which  is 
precipitated  upon  our  heads.’ 

‘But  surely,’  I  broke  in  at  this  point,  ‘the  river-front 
is  open,  and  it  is  worth  while  dodging  the  bullets; 
while  at  night - ’ 

I  had  already  matured  a  rough  plan  of  escape  which 
a  natural  instinct  of  selfishness  forbade  me  sharing 
with  Gunga  Dass.  He,  however,  divined  my  unspoken 
thought  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  formed ;  and,  to  my 
intense  astonishment,  gave  vent  to  a  long  low  chuckle 
of  derision  —  the  laughter,  be  it  understood,  of  a  supe¬ 
rior  or  at  least  of  an  equal. 

‘  You  will  not  ’  —  he  had  dropped  the  Sir  after  his 
first  sentence — .‘make  any  escape  that  way.  But  you 
can  try.  I  have  tried.  Once  only.’ 

The  sensation  of  nameless  terror  which  I  had  in 
vain  attempted  to  strive  against,  overmastered  me  com¬ 
pletely.  My  long  fast  —  it  was  now  close  upon  ten 
o’clock,  and  I  had  eaten  nothing  since  tiffin  on  the  pre¬ 
vious  day  —  combined  with  the  violent  agitation  of  the 
ride  had  exhausted  me,  and  I  verily  believe  that,  for  a 
few  minutes,  I  acted  as  one  mad.  I  hurled  myself 
against  the  sand-slope.  I  ran  round  the  base  of  the 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


1G9 

crater,  blaspheming  and  praying  by  turns.  I  crawled 
out  among  tlie  sedges  of  the  river-front,  only  to  be 
driven  back  each  time  in  an  agony  of  nervous  dread  by 
the  rifle-bullets  which  cut  up  the  sand  round  me  —  for 
I  daied  not  face  the  death  of  a  mad  dog  among  that 
hideous  crowd  and  so  fell,  spent  and  raving,  at  the 
curb  of  the  well.  No  one  had  taken  the  slightest  notice 
of  an  exhibition  which  makes  me  blush  hotly  even  when 
I  think  of  it  now. 

Iwo  or  three  men  trod  on  my  panting  body  as  they 
drew  water,  but  they  were  evidently  used  to  this  sort 
of  thing,  and  had  no  time  to  waste  upon  me.  Gunga 
Dass,  indeed,  when  he  had  banked  the  embers  of  his 
fixe  with  sand,  was  at  some  pains  to  throw  half  a  cupful 
of  fetid  water  over  my  head,  an  attention  for  which  1 
could  have  fallen  on  my  knees  and  thanked  him,  but 
he  was  laughing  all  the  while  in  the  same  mirthless, 
wheezy  key  that  greeted  me  on  my  first  attempt  to 
force  the  shoals.  And  so,  in  a  half -fainting  state,  1 
lay  till  noon.  Then,  being  only  a  man  after  all,  I  felt 
hungry,  and  said  as  much  to  Gunga  Dass,  whom  I  had 
begun  to  regard  as  my  natural  protector.  Following 
the  impulse  of  the  outer  world  when  dealing  with  na¬ 
tives,  I  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket  and  drew  out  four 
annas.  The  absurdity  of  the  gift  struck  me  at  once, 
and  I  was  about  to  i*eplace  the  money. 

Gunga  Dass,  however,  cried :  4  Give  me  the  money, 
all  you  have,  or  I  will  get  help,  and  we  will  kill  you !  ’ 

A  Briton  s  first  impulse,  I  believe,  is  to  guard  the 
contents  of  his  pockets ;  but  a  moment’s  thought 
showed  me  of  the  folly  of  differing  with  the  one  man 
who  had  it  in  his  power  to  make  me  comfortable ;  and 
with  whose  help  it  was  possible  that  I  might  eventu- 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


170 

ally  escape  from  the  crater.  I  gave  him  all  the  money 
in  my  possession,  Rs.  9-8-5  — nine  rupees,  eight  annas, 
and  five  pie  —  for  I  always  keep  small  change  as  bakshish 
when  I  am  in  camp.  Gunga  Dass  clutched  the  coins, 
and  hid  them  at  once  in  his  ragged  loin-cloth,  looking 
round  to  assure  himself  that  no  one  had  observed  us. 

‘Now  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat,’  said  he. 

What  pleasure  my  money  could  have  given  him  I  am 
unable  to  say  ;  but  inasmuch  as  it  did  please  him  I 
was  not  sorry  that  I  had  parted  with  it  so  readily,  for 
I  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  had  me  killed  if  I 
had  refused.  One  does  not  protest  against  the  doings 
of  a  den  of  wild  beasts  ;  and  my  companions  were  lower 
than  any  beasts.  While  I  eat  what  Gunga  Dass  had 
provided,  a  coarse  chapatti  and  a  cupful  of  the  foul 
well-water,  the  people  showed  not  the  faintest  sign  of 
curiosity  —  that  curiosity  which  is  so  rampant,  as  a 

rule,  in  an  Indian  village. 

I  could  even  fancy  that  they  despised  me.  At  all 
events  they  treated  me  with  the  most  chilling  indiffer¬ 
ence,  and  Gunga  Dass  was  nearly  as  bad.  I  plied  him 
with  questions  about  the  terrible  village,  aorl  renewed  ex¬ 
tremely  unsatisfactory  answers.  So  far  as  I  could  gather, 
it  had  been  in  existence  from  time  immemorial  —  whence 
I  concluded  that  it  was  at  least  a  century  old  —  and 
during  that  time  no  one  had  ever  been  known  to  escape 
from  it.  [I  had  to  control  myself  here  with  both  hands, 
lest  the  blind  terror  should  lay  hold  of  me  a  second 
time  and  drive  me  raving  round  the  crater.]  Gunga 
Dass  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  emphasising  this  point 
and  in  watching  me  wince.  Nothing  that  I  could  do 
would  induce  him  to  tell  me  who  the  mysterious  4  They  ’ 


were. 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


171 

4  It  is  so  ordered,’  he  would  reply,  4  and  I  do  not  yet 
know  any  one  who  has  disobeyed  the  orders.’ 

4  Only  wait  till  my  servant  finds  that  I  am  missing*,’ 
I  retorted,  ‘  and  I  promise  you  that  this  place  shall  be 
cleared  off  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  I’ll  give  you  a 
lesson  in  civility,  too,  my  friend.’ 

‘Your  servants  would  be  torn  in  pieces  before  they 
came  near  this  place  ;  and,  besides,  you  are  dead,  my 
dear  friend.  It  is  not  your  fault,  of  course,  but  none 
the  less  you  are  dead  and  buried.’ 

At  irregular  intervals  supplies  of  food,  I  was  told, 
were  dropped  down  from  the  land  side  into  the  amphi¬ 
theatre,  and  the  inhabitants  fought  for  them  like  wild 
beasts.  When  a  man  felt  his  death  coming  on  he  re¬ 
treated  to  his  lair  and  died  there.  The  body  was  some¬ 
times  dragged  out  of  the  hole  and  thrown  on  to  the 
sand,  or  allowed  to  rot  where  it  lay. 

The  phrase  ‘  thrown  on  to  the  sand  ’  caught  my  atten¬ 
tion,  and  I  asked  Gunga  Dass  whether  this  sort  of  thing 
was  not  likely  to  breed  a  pestilence. 

‘  That,’  said  he,  with  another  of  his  wheezy  chuckles, 

‘  you  may  see  for  yourself  subsequently.  You  will  have 
much  time  to  make  observations.’ 

Whereat,  to  his  great  delight,  I  winced  once  more  and 
hastily  continued  the  conversation:  ‘And  how  do  you 
live  here  from  day  to  day  ?  What  do  you  do  ?  ’  The 
question  elicited  exactly  the  same  answer  as  before — - 
coupled  with  the  information  that  ‘  this  place  is  like 
your  European  heaven ;  there  is  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage.’ 

Gunga  Dass  had  been  educated  at  a  Mission  School, 
and,  as  he  himself  admitted,  had  he  only  changed  his 
religion  ‘like  a  wise  man,’  might  have  avoided  the 


yj2  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

living  grave  which  was  now  his  portion.  But  as  long 

as  I  was  with  him  I  fancy  he  was  happy. 

Here  was  a  Sahib,  a  representative  of  the  dominant  _ 
race,  helpless  as  a  child  and  completely  at  the  mercy  of 
his  native  neighbours.  In  a  deliberate  lazy  way  he  set 
himself  to  torture  me  as  a  schoolboy  would  devote  a 
rapturous  half-hour  to  watching  the  agonies  of  an  im¬ 
paled  beetle,  or  as  a  ferret  in  a  blind  burrow  mig  i 
glue  himself  comfortably  to  the  neck  of  a  rabbit, 
burden  of  his  conversation  was  that  there  was  no  escape 
4  of  no  land  whatever,’  and  that  I  should  stay  here  till  I 
died  and  was  ‘  thrown  on  to  the  sand.’  If  it  were  possible 
to  forejudge  the  conversation  of  the  Damned  on  the 
advent ^of  a  new  soul  in  their  abode,  I  should  say  that 
they  would  speak  as  Gunga  Dass  did  to  me  t  roug  ou 
that  long  afternoon.  I  was  powerless  to  protest  or 
answer  ;  all  my  energies  being  devoted  to  a  strugg  e 
against  the  inexplicable  terror  that  threatened  to  over¬ 
whelm  me  again  and  again.  I  can  compare  the  feel¬ 
ing  to  nothing  except  the  struggles  of  a  man  against 
the  overpowering  nausea  of  the  Channel  passage 
only  my  agony  was  of  the  spirit  and  infinitely  more 

tPTTlbl  6  • 

As  the  day  wore  on,  the  inhabitants  began  to  appear 
in  full  strength  to  catch  the  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun, 
which  were  now  sloping  in  at  the  mouth  of  the  crater. 
They  assembled  by  little  knots,  and  talked  among  them 
selves  without  even  throwing  a  glance  in  my  direction. 
About  four  o’clock,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  Gunga  Dass 
rose  and  dived  into  his  lair  for  a  moment,  emerging  with 
a  live  crow  in  his  hands.  The  wretched  bird  was  in  a 
most  draggled  and  deplorable  condition,  but  seemed  to 
be  in  no  way  afraid  of  its  master.  Advancing  cau 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


173 


tiously  to  the  river-front,  Gunga  Dass  stepped  from 
tussock  to  tussock  until  he  had  reached  a  smooth  patch 
of  sand  directly  in  the  line  of  the  boat’s  fire.  The  oc¬ 
cupants  of  the  boat  took  no  notice.  Here  he  stopped, 
and,  with  a  couple  of  dexterous  turns  of  the  wrist, 
pegged  the  bird  on  its  back  with  outstretched  wings. 
As  was  only  natural,  the  crow  began  to  shriek  at  once 
and  beat  the  air  with  its  claws.  In  a  few  seconds  the 
clamour  had  attracted  the  attention  of  a  bevy  of  wild 
crows  on  a  shoal  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  where 
they  were  discussing  something  that  looked  like  a 
corpse.  Half  a  dozen  crows  flew  over  at  once  to  see 
what  was  going  on,  and  also,  as  it  proved,  to  attack  the 
pinioned  bird.  Gunga  Dass,  who  had  lain  down  on  a 
tussock,  motioned  to  me  to  be  quiet,  though  I  fancy 
this  was  a  needless  precaution.  In  a  moment,  and 
before  I  could  see  how  it  happened,  a  wild  crow,  who 
had  grappled  with  the  shrieking  and  helpless  bird,  was 
entangled  in  the  latter’s  claws,  swiftly  disengaged  by 
Gunga  Dass,  and  pegged  down  beside  its  companion  in 
adversity.  Curiosity,  it  seemed,  overpowered  the  rest 
aH  the  flock,  and  almost  before  Gunga  Dass  and  I  had 
time  to  withdraw  to  the  tussock,  two  more  captives  were 
struggling  in  the  upturned  claws  of  the  decoys.  So  the 
chase  —  if  I  can  give  it  so  dignified  a  name  —  continued 
until  Gunga  Dass  had  captured  seven  crows.  Five  of 
them  he  throttled  at  once,  reserving  two  for  further 
operations  another  day.  I  was  a  good  deal  impressed 
by  this,  to  me,  novel  method  of  securing  food,  and 
complimented  Gunga  Dass  on  his  skill. 

‘  It  is  nothing  to  do,’  said  he.  ‘  To-morrow  you  must 
do  it  for  me.  You  are  stronger  than  I  am.’ 

This  calm  assumption  of  superiority  upset  me  not  a 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


174 

little,  arid  I  answered  peremptorily:  ‘Indeed,  yon  old 
ruffian  ?  Wliat  do  you  think  I  have  given  you  money 

for  ?  ’ 

‘  Very  well,’  was  the  unmoved  reply.  ‘  Perhaps  not 
to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after,  nor  subsequently;  but  in 
the  end,  and  for  many  years,  you  will  catch  crows  and 
eat  crows,  and  you  will  thank  your  European  God  that 
you  have  crows  to  catch  and  eat.’ 

I  could  have  cheerfully  strangled  him  for  this  ;  but 
judged  it  best  under  the  circumstances  to  smother  my 
resentment.  An  hour  later  I  was  eating  one  of  the 
crows  ;  and,  as  Gunga  Dass  had  said,  thanking  my 
God  that  I  had  a  crow  to  eat.  Never  as  long  as  I  live 
shall  I  forget  that  evening  meal.  The  whole  population 
were  squatting  on  the  hard  sand  platform  opposite  their 
dens,  huddled  over  tiny  fires  of  refuse  and  dried  rushes. 
Death,  having  once  laid  his  hand  upon  these  men  and 
forborne  to  strike,  seemed  to  stand  aloof  from  them 
now  ;  for  most  of  our  company  were  old  men,  bent 
and  worn  and  twisted  with  years,  and  women  aged 
to  all  appearance  as  the  Fates  themselves.  They  sat 
together  in  knots  and  talked  —  God  only  knows  what 
they  found  to  discuss  —  in  low  equable  tones,  curi¬ 
ously  in  contrast  to  the  strident  babble  with  which 
natives  are  accustomed  to  make  day  hideous.  Now 
and  then  an  access  of  that  sudden  fury  which  had  pos¬ 
sessed  me  in  the  morning  would  lay  hold  on  a  man  or 
woman  ;  and  with  yells  and  imprecations  the  sufferer 
would  attack  the  steep  slope  until,  baffled  and  bleeding, 
he  fell  back  on  the  platform  incapable  of  moving  a 
limb.  The  others  would  never  even  raise  their  eyes 
when  this  happened,  as  men  too  well  aware  of  the 
futility  of  their  fellows’  attempts  and  wearied  with 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


175 


ffcei*  useless  repetition.  I  saw  foui  such  outbursts  in 
the  course  of  that  evening. 

Gunga  Dass  took  an  eminently  business-like  view  of 
my  situation,  and  while  we  were  dining  —  I  can  afford 
to  laugh  at  the  recollection  now,  but  it  was  painful 
enough  at  the  time  —  propounded  the  terms  of  which 
he  would  consent  to  ‘do’  for  me.  My  nine  rupees 
eight  annas,  he  argued,  at  the  rate  of  three  annas  a 
day,  would  provide  me  with  food  for  fifty-one  days, 
or  about  seven  weeks  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  would  be 
willing  to  cater  for  me  for  that  length  of  time.  At 
the  end  of  it  I  was  to  look  after  myself.  For  a  further 
consideration  —  videlicet  my  boots  —  he  would  be  will¬ 
ing  to  allow  me  to  occupy  the  den  next  to  his  own, 
and  would  supply  me  with  as  much  dried  grass  for 
bedding  as  he  could  spare. 

‘Very  well,  Gunga  Dass,’  I  replied;  ‘to  the  first 
terms  I  cheerfully  agree,  but,  as  there  is  nothing  on 
earth  to  prevent  my  killing  you  as  you  sit  here  and 
taking  everything  that  you  have’  (I  thought  of  the 
two  invaluable  crows  at  the  time),  ‘  I  flatly  refuse  to 
give  you  my  boots  and  shall  take  whichever  den  I 
please.’ 

The  stroke  was  a  bold  one,  and  I  was  glad  when  I  saw 
that  it  had  succeeded.  Gunga  Dass  changed  his  tone 
immediately,  and  disavowed  all  intention  of  asking  for 
my  boots.  At  the  time  it  did  not  strike  me  as  at  all 
strange  that  I,  a  Civil  Engineer,  a  man  of  thirteen 
years’  standing  in  the  Service,  and,  I  trust,  an  average 
Englishman,  should  thus  calmly  threaten  murder  and 
violence  against  the  man  who  had,  for  a  consideration 
it  is  true,  taken  me  under  his  wing.  I  had  left  the 
world,  it  seemed,  for  centuries.  I  was  as  certain  then 


176 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

as  I  am  now  of  my  own  existence,  that  in  the  accursed, 
settlement  there  was  no  law  save  that  of  the  strongest , 
that  the  living  dead  men  had  thrown  behind  them 
every  canon  of  the  world  which  had  cast  them  out ; 
and  that  I  had  to  depend  for  my  own  life  on  my 
strength  and  vigilance  alone.  The  crew  of  the  ill- 
fated  Mignonette  are  the  only  men  who  would  under¬ 
stand  my  frame  of  mind.  ‘  At  present,’  I  argued  to 
myself,  ‘I  am  strong  and  a  match  for  six  of  these 
wretches.  It  is  imperatively  necessary  that  I  should, 
for  my  own  sake,  keep  both  health  and  strength  until 
the  hour  of  my  release  comes  —  if  it  ever  does. 

Fortified  with  these  resolutions,  I  ate  and  drank  as 
much  as  I  could,  and  made  Gunga  Dass  understand 
that  I  intended  to  be  his  master,  and  that  the  least  sign 
of  insubordination  on  his  part  would  be  visited  with  the 
only  punishment  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  inflict  —  sud¬ 
den  and  violent  death.  Shortly  after  this  I  went  to 
bed.  That  is  to  say,  Gunga  Dass  gave  me  a  double 
armful  of  dried  bents  which  I  thrust  down  the  mouth 
of  the  lair  to  the  right  of  his,  and  followed  myself,  feet 
foremost ;  the  hole  running  about  nine  feet  into  the 
sand  with  a  slight  downward  inclination,  and  being 
neatly  shored  with  timbers.  From  my  den,  which  faced 
the  river-front,  I  was  able  to  watch  the  waters  of  the 
Sutlej  flowing  past  under  the  light  of  a  young  moon 
and  compose  myself  to  sleep  as  best  I  might. 

The  horrors  of  that  night  I  shall  never  forget.  Mv 
den  was  nearly  as  narrow  as  a  coffin,  and  the  sides  had 
been  worn  smooth  and  greasy  by  the  contact  of  innu¬ 
merable  naked  bodies,  added  to  which  it  smelt  abonn- 
nably.  Sleep  was  altogether  out  of  the  question  to  one 
in  my  excited  frame  of  mind.  As  the  night  wore  on, 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


177 


it  seemed  that  the  entire  amphitheatre  was  filled  with 
legions  of  unclean  devils  that,  trooping  up  from  the 
shoals  below,  mocked  the  unfortunates  in  their  lairs. 

Personally  I  am  not  of  an  imaginative  temperament 

_ very  few  Engineers  are  —  but  on  that  occasion  I  was 

as  completely  prostrated  with  nervous  terror  as  any 
woman.  After  half  an  hour  or  so,  however,  I  was  able 
once  more  to  calmly  review  my  chances  of  escape.  Any 
exit  by  the  steep  sand  walls  was,  of  course,  impractica¬ 
ble.  I  had  been  thoroughly  convinced  of  this  some 
time  before.  It  was  possible,  just  possible,  that  I  might, 
in  the  uncertain  moonlight,  safely  run  the  gauntlet  of  the 
rifle  shots.  The  place  was  so  full  of  terror  for  me  that 
I  was  prepared  to  undergo  any  risk  in  leaving  it.  Imagine 
my  delight,  then,  when  after  creeping  stealthily  to  the 
river-front  I  found  that  the  infernal  boat  was  not  there. 
My  freedom  lay  before  me  in  the  next  few  steps ! 

By  walking  out  to  the  first  shallow  pool  that  lay  at 
the  foot  of  the  projecting  left  horn  of  the  horseshoe,  I 
could  wade  across,  turn  the  flank  of  the  crater,  and 
make  my  way  inland.  Without  a  moment’s  hesitation 
I  marched  briskly  past  the  tussocks  where  Gunga  Dass 
had  snared  the  crows,  and  out  in  the  direction  of  the 
smooth  white  sand  beyond.  My  first  step  from  the 
tufts  of  dried  grass  showed  me  how  utterly  futile  was 
any  hope  of  escape ;  for,  as  I  put  my  foot  down,  I  felt 
an  indescribable  drawing,  sucking  motion  of  the  sand 
below.  Another  moment  and  my  leg  was  swallowed 
up  nearly  to  the  knee.  In  the  moonlight  the  whole 
surface  of  the  sand  seemed  to  be  shaken  with  devilish 
delight  at  my  disappointment.  I  struggled  clear,  sweat¬ 
ing  with  terror  and  exertion,  back  to  the  tussocks  behind 
me  and  fell  on  my  face. 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


178 

only  means  of  escape  from  the  semicircle  was 

protected  with  a  quicksand! 

How  long  I  lay  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea ;  but  I 
was  roused  at  the  last  by  the  malevolent  chuckle  of 
Gunga  Dass  at  my  ear.  4 1  would  advise  you,  Pro¬ 
tector  of  the  Poor  ’  (the  ruffian  was  speaking  English) 

4  to  return  to  your  house.  It  is  unhealthy  to  lie  down 
here.  Moreover,  when  the  boat  returns,  you  will  most 
certainly  be  rilled  at.5  He  stood  over  me  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  dawn,  chuckling  and  laughing  to  himself. 
Suppressing  my  first  impulse  to  catch  the  man  by  the 
neck  and  throw  him  on  to  the  quicksand,  I  rose  sullenly 
and  followed  him  to  the  platform  below  the  burrows. 

Suddenly,  and  futilely  as  I  thought  while  I  spoke,  I 
asked :  4  Gunga  Dass,  what  is  the  good  of  the  boat  if 
I  can’t  get  out  anyhow  ? '  I  recollect  that  even  in  my 
deepest  trouble  I  had  been  speculating  vaguely  on  the 
waste  of  ammunition  in  guarding  an  already  well  pro¬ 
tected  foreshore. 

Gunga  Dass  laughed  again  and  made  answei  :  They 
have  the  boat  only  in  daytime.  It  is  for  the  reason 
that  there  is  a  way.  I  hope  we  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  for  much  longer  time.  It  is  a  pleas¬ 
ant  spot  when  you  have  been  here  some  years  and  eaten 
roast  crow  long  enough.’ 

I  staggered,  numbed  and  helpless,  towards  the  fetid 
burrow  allotted  to  me,  and  fell  asleep.  An  hour  or  so 
later  I  was  awakened  by  a  piercing  scream  —  the  shrill, 
high-pitched  scream  of  a  horse  in  pain.  Those  wffio 
have  once  heard  that  will  never  forget  the  sound.  I 
found  some  little  difficulty  in  scrambling  out  of  the 
burrow.  When  I  was  in  the  open,  I  saw  Pornic,  my 
poor  old  Pornic,  lying  dead  on  the  sandy  soil.  Plow  they 


'HIE  STRANGE  RIDE 


179 

iiad  killed  him  I  cannot  guess.  Gnnga  Dass  explained 
that  liorse  was  better  than  crow,  and  ‘  greatest  good 
of  greatest  number  is  political  maxim.  We  are  now 
Republic,  Mister  Jukes,  and  you  are  entitled  to  a  fair 
share  of  the  beast.  If  you  like,  we  will  pass  a  vote  of 
thanks.  Shall  I  propose  ?  5 

Yes,  we  were  a  Republic  indeed!  A  Republic  of 
wild  beasts  penned  at  the  bottom  of  a  pit,  to  eat  and 
fight  and  sleep  till  we  died.  I  attempted  no  protest  of 
any  kind,  but  sat  down  and  stared  at  the  hideous  sight 
in  front  of  me.  In  less  time  almost  than  it  takes  me  to 
write  this,  Pornic’s  body  was  divided,  in  some  unclean 
way  or  other ;  the  men  and  women  had  dragged  the 
fragments  on  to  the  platform  and  were  preparing  their 
morning  meal.  Gunga  Dass  cooked  mine.  The  almost 
irresistible  impulse  to  fly  at  the  sand  walls  until  I  was 
wearied  laid  hold  of  me  afresh,  and  I  had  to  struggle 
against  it  with  all  my  might.  Gunga  Dass  was  offen¬ 
sively  jocular  till  I  told  him  that  if  he  addressed  another 
remark  of  any  kind  whatever  to  me  I  should  strangle 
him  where  he  sat.  This  silenced  him  till  silence 
became  insupportable,  and  I  bade  him  say  something. 

‘You  will  live  here  till  you  die  like  the  other  Fe- 
ringhi,’  he  said  coolly,  watching  me  over  the  fragment 
of  gristle  that  he  was  gnawing. 

‘  What  other  Sahib,  you  swine  ?  Speak  at  once,  and 
don’t  stop  to  tell  me  a  lie.’ 

‘He  is  over  there,’  answered  Gunga  Dass,  pointing 
to  a  burrow-mouth  about  four  doors  to  the  left  of  my 
own.  ‘You  can  see  for  yourself.  He  died  in  the 
burrow  as  you  will  die,  and  I  will  die,  and  as  all  these 
men  and  women  and  the  one  child  will  also  die.’ 

‘For  pity’s  sake  tell  me  all  you  know  about  him. 


180 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Who  was  he  ?  When  did  he  come,  and  when  did  he 
die?’ 

This  appeal  was  a  weak  step  on  my  part.  Gnnga 
Dass  only  leered  and  replied  :  ‘  1  will  not  —  unless  you 
give  me  something  first.’ 

Then  I  recollected  where  I  was,  and  struck  the  man 
between  the  eyes,  partially  stunning  him.  He  stepped 
down  from  the  platform  at  once,  and,  cringing  and 
fawning  and  weeping  and  attempting  to  embrace  my 
feet,  led  me  round  to  the  burrow  which  he  had 
indicated. 

4 1  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  gentleman. 
Your  God  be  my  witness  that  I  do  not.  He  was  as 
anxious  to  escape  as  you  were,  and  he  was  shot  fro:  > 
the  boat,  though  we  all  did  all  things  to  prevent  him 
from  attempting.  He  was  shot  here.’  Gunga  Dass 
laid  his  hand  on  his  lean  stomach  and  bowed  to  the 
earth. 

‘  W ell,  and  what  then  ?  Go  on  !  ’ 

‘And  then  — and  then,  Your  Honour,  we  carried 
him  into  his  house  and  gave  him  water,  and  put  wet 
cloths  on  the  wound,  and  he  laid  down  in  his  house 
and  gave  up  the  ghost.’ 

‘  In  how  long  ?  In  how  long  ?  ’ 

•  About  half  an  hour,  after  he  received  his  wound 
1  call  Yishn  to  witness,’  yelled  the  wretched  man, 
*  that  I  did  everything  for  him.  Everything  which 

was  possible,  that  I  did  !  ’ 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground  and  clasped 
my  ankles.  But  I  had  my  doubts  about  Gunga 
Dass’s  benevolence,  and  kicked  him  off  as  he  lay 
protesting. 

‘I  believe  you  robbed  him  of  everything  he  had- 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


181 


But  I  can  find  out  in  a  minute  or  two.  How  long  was 
the  Sahib  here  ?  ’ 

‘Nearly  a  year  and  a  half.  I  think  he  must  have 
gone  mad.  But  hear  me  swear,  Protector  of  the 
Poor!  Won’t  Your  Honour  hear  me  swear  that  I 
never  touched  an  article  that  belonged  to  him  ?  What 
is  Your  Worship  going  to  do?’ 

I  had  taken  Gunga  Dass  by  the  waist  and  had 
hauled  him  on  to  the  platform  opposite  the  deserted 
burrow.  As  I  did  so  I  thought  of  my  wretched 
fellow-prisoner’s  unspeakable  misery  among  all  these 
horrors  for  eighteen  months,  and  the  final  agony  of 
dying  like  a  rat  in  a  hole,  with  a  bullet  wound  in 
the  stomach.  Gunga  Dass  fancied  I  was  going  to  kill 
him  and  howled  pitifully.  The  rest  of  the  population, 
in  the  plethora  that  follows  a  full  flesh  meal,  watched 
us  without  stirring. 

‘  Go  inside,  Gunga  Dass,’  said  I,  4  and  fetch  it  out.  * 

I  was  feeling  sick  and  faint  with  horror  now. 
Gunga  Dass  nearly  rolled  off  the  platform  and  howled 
aloud. 

‘But  I  am  Brahmin,  Sahib  —  a  high-caste  Brahmin. 
By  your  soul,  by  your  father’s  soul,  do  not  make  me 
do  this  thing  !  ’ 

‘  Brahmin  or  no  Brahmin,  by  my  soul  and  my 
father’s  soul,  in  you  go !  ’  I  said,  and,  seizing  him  by 
the  shoulders,  I  crammed  his  head  into  the  mouth  of 
the  burrow,  kicked  the  rest  of  him  in,  and,  sitting 
down,  covered  my  face  with  my  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  I  heard  a  rustle  and 
a  creak ;  then  Gunga  Dass  in  a  sobbing,  choking 
whisper  speaking  to  himself ;  then  a  soft  thud  —  and 
I  uncovered  my  eyes. 


182 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


The  dry  sand  had  turned  the  corpse  entrusted  to  its 
keeping  into  a  yellow-brown  mummy.  I  told  Gunga 
Dass  to  stand  off  while  I  examined  it.  The  body  — 
clad  in  an  olive-green  hunting-suit  much  stained  and 
worn,  with  leather  pads  on  the  shoulders  —  was  that  of 
a  man  between  thirty  and  forty,  above  middle  height, 
with  light,  sandy  hair,  long  moustache,  and  a  rough 
unkempt  beard.  The  left  canine  of  the  upper  jaw  was 
missing,  and  a  portion  of  the  lobe  of  the  right  ear  was 
gone.  On  the  second  finger  of  the  left  hand  was  a 
ring  —  a  shield-shaped  blood-stone  set  in  gold,  with  a 
monogram  that  might  have  been  either  4  B.  K.  or 
4  B.  L.’  On  the  third  finger  of  the  right  hand  was  a 
silver  ring  in  the  shape  of  a  coiled  cobra,  much  worn 
and  tarnished.  Gunga  Dass  deposited  a  handful  of 
trifles  he  had  picked  out  of  the  burrow  at  my  feet,  and, 
covering  the  face  of  the  body  with  my  handkerchief,  1 
turned  to  examine  these.  I  give  the  full  list  in  the 
hope  that  it  may  lead  to  the  identification  of  the  unfor¬ 
tunate  man  :  — 

1.  Bowl  of  a  briarwood  pipe,  serrated  at  the  edge  ; 
much  worn  and  blackened  ;  bound  with  string  at  the 
screw. 

2.  Two  patent-lever  keys  ;  wards  of  both  broken. 

3.  Tortoise-shell-handled  penknife,  silver  or  nickel, 
name-plate,  marked  with  monogram  4  B.  K.’ 

4.  Envelope,  postmark  undecipherable,  bearing  a 

Victorian  stamp,  addressed  to  4  Miss  Mon - ’  (rest 

illegible)  — 4  ham  ’  —  ’nt.’ 

5.  Imitation  crocodile-skin  notebook  with  pencil. 
First  forty-five  pages  blank ;  four  and  a  half  illegible 
fifteen  others  filled  with  private  memoranda  relating 
chiefly  to  three  persons  —  a  Mrs.  L.  Singleton,  abbrevi' 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


183 


ated  several  times  to  4  Lot  Single,’  4  Mrs.  S.  May,’  and 
4  Garmison,’  referred  to  in  places  as  4  Jerry’  or  4  Jack/ 

6.  Handle  of  small-sized  lmnting-knife.  Blade 
snapped  short.  Buck’s  horn,  diamond-cut,  with  swivel 
and  ring  on  the  butt ;  fragment  of  cotton  cord  attached. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  inventoried  all  these 
things  on  the  spot  as  fully  as  I  have  here  written  them 
down.  J  he  notebook  first  attracted  my  attention,  and 
I  put  it  in  my  pocket  with  a  view  to  studying  it  later 
on.  The  rest  of  the  articles  I  conveyed  to  my  burrow 
for  safety’s  sake,  and  there,  being  a  methodical  man,  I 
inventoried  them.  I  then  returned  to  the  corpse  and 
ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  help  me  to  carry  it  out  to  the 
river-front.  While  we  were  engaged  in  this,  the  exploded 
shell  of  an  old  brown  cartridge  dropped  out  of  one  of 
the  pockets  and  rolled  at  my  feet.  Gunga  Dass  had 
not  seen  it ;  and  I  fell  to  thinking  that  a  man  does  not 
carry  exploded  cartridge-cases,  especially  ‘browns,’ 
which  will  not  bear  loading  twice,  about  with  him 
when  shooting.  In  other  words,  that  cartridge-case 
had  been  fired  inside  the  crater.  Consequently  there 
must  be  a  gun  somewhere.  I  was  on  the  verge  of  ask 
ing  Gunga  Dass,  but  checked  myself,  knowing  that  he 
would  lie.  We  laid  the  body  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
quicksand  by  the  tussocks.  It  was  my  intention  to 
push  it  out  and  let  it  be  swallowed  up  —  the  only  pos¬ 
sible  mode  of  burial  that  I  could  think  of.  I  ordered 
Gunga  Dass  to  go  away. 

Then  I  gingerly  put  the  corpse  out  on  the  quicksand. 
In  doing  so,  it  was  lying  face  downward,  I  tore  the  frail 
and  rotten  khaki  shooting-coat  open,  disclosing  a  hide¬ 
ous  cavity  in  the  back.  I  have  already  told  you  that 
the  dry  sand  had,  as  it  were,  mummified  the  body.  A 


184 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


moment’s  glance  showed  that  the  gaping  hole  had  been 
caused  by  a  gunshot  wound ;  the  gun  must  have  been 
fired  with  the  muzzle  almost  touching  the  back.  The 
shooting-coat,  being  intact,  had  been  drawn  over  the 
body  after  death,  which  must  have  been  instantaneous. 
The  secret  of  the  poor  wretch’s  death  was  plain  to  me 
in  a  flash.  Some  one  of  the  crater,  presumably  Gunga 
Dass,  must  have  shot  him  with  his  own  gun  —  the  gun 
that  fitted  the  brown  cartridges.  He  had  never  at¬ 
tempted  to  escape  in  the  face  of  the  rifle-fire  from  the 
boat. 

I  pushed  the  corpse  out  hastily,  and  saw  it  sink  from 
sight  literally  in  a  few  seconds.  I  shuddered  as  I 
watched.  In  a  dazed,  half-conscious  way  I  turned  to 
peruse  the  notebook.  A  stained  and  discoloured  slip 
of  paper  had  been  inserted  between  the  binding  and  the 
back,  and  dropped  out  as  I  opened  the  pages.  This  is 
what  it  contained :  4  Four  out  from  croiv-clump ;  three 
left ;  nine  out ;  two  right ;  three  back  ;  two  left ;  fourteen 
out;  two  left;  seven  out;  one  left;  nine  back;  two  right; 
six  back  ;  four  right ;  seven  back .’  The  paper  had  been 
burnt  and  charred  at  the  edges.  What  it  meant  I  could 
not  understand.  I  sat  down  on  the  dried  bents  turning 
It  over  and  over  between  my  fingers,  until  I  was  aware 
of  G  unga  Dass  standing  immediately  behind  me  with 
glowing  eyes  and  outstretched  hands. 

‘  Have  you  got  it  ?  ’  he  panted.  4  Will  you  not  let  me 
look  at  it  also  ?  I  swear  that  I  will  return  it.’ 

‘  Got  what  ?  Return  what  ?  ’  I  asked. 

4  That  which  you  have  in  your  hands.  It  will  help 
as  both.’  He  stretched  out  his  long,  bird-like  talons, 
trembling  with  eagerness. 

4  4  could  never  find  it,’  he  continued.  4  He  had  se- 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  185 

creted  it  about  his  person.  Therefore  I  shot  him,  but 
nevertheless  I  was  unable  to  obtain  it.’ 

Gunga  Dass  had  quite  forgotten  his  little  fiction  about 
the  rifle-bullet.  I  heard  him  calmly.  Morality  is  blunted 
by  consorting  with  the  Dead  who  are  alive. 

4  What  on  earth  are  you  raving  about  ?  What  is  it 
you  want  me  to  give  you  ?  ’ 

4  The  piece  of  paper  in  the  notebook.  It  will  help  us 
both.  Oh,  you  fool !  You  fool!  Can  you  not  see  what 
it  will  do  for  us?  We  shall  escape  !  ’ 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream,  and  he  danced 
with  excitement  before  me.  I  own  I  was  moved  at 
the  chance  of  getting  away. 

4  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  slip  of  paper  will  help 
us  ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  ’ 

4  Read  it  aloud  :  Read  it  aloud !  I  beg  and  I  pray 
to  you  to  read  it  aloud.’ 

I  did  so.  Gunga  Dass  listened  delightedly,  and  drew 
an  irregular  line  in  the  sand  with  his  fingers. 

4  See  now  I  It  was  the  length  of  his  gun-barrels  with¬ 
out  the  stock  I  have  those  barrels.  Four  gun-barrels 
out  from  the  place  where  I  caught  crows.  Straight  out ; 
do  you  mind  me?  Then  three  left.  Ah  !  Now  well  I 
remember  how  that  man  worked  it  out  night  after 
night.  Then  nine  out,  and  so  on.  Out  is  always 
straight  before  you  across  the  quicksand  to  the  North. 
He  told  me  so  before  I  killed  him.’ 

4  But  if  you  knew  all  this  why  didn’t  you  get  out 
before  ?  ’ 

4 1  did  not  know  it.  He  told  me  that  he  was  working 
it  out  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  and  how  he  was  working 
it  out  night  after  night  when  the  boat  had  gone  away, 
and  he  could  get  out  near  the  quicksand  safely.  Then 


186 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


he  said  that  we  would  get  away  together.  But  1  was 
afraid  that  he  would  leave  me  behind  one  night  when 
he  had  worked  it  all  out,  and  so  I  shot  him.  Besides, 
it  is  not  advisable  that  the  men  who  once  get  in  here 
should  escape.  Only  I,  and  I  am  a  Brahmin.’ 

The  hope  of  escape  had  brought  Gunga  Dass’s  caste 
back  to  him.  He  stocd  up,  walked  about  and  gesticu¬ 
lated  violently.  Eventually  I  managed  to  make  him 
talk  soberly,  and  he  told  me  how  this  Englishman  had 
spent  six  months  night  after  night  in  exploring,  inch 
by  inch,  the  passage  across  the  quicksand ;  how  he  had 
declared  it  to  be  simplicity  itself  up  to  within  about 
twenty  yards  of  the  river  bank  after  turning  the  flank 
of  the  left  horn  of  the  horseshoe.  This  much  he  had 
evidently  not  coihpleted  when  Gunga  Dass  shot  him 
with  his  own  gun. 

In  my  frenzy  of  delight  at  the  possibilities  of  escape 
I  recollect  shaking  hands  wildly  with  Gunga  Dass,  after 
we  had  decided  that  we  were  to  make  an  attempt  to  get 
away  that  very  night.  It  was  weary  work  waiting 
throughout  the  afternoon. 

About  ten  o’clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  when  the 
Moon  had  just  risen  above  the  lip  of  the  crater,  Gunga 
Dass  made  a  move  for  his  burrow  to  bring  out  the  gun- 
barrels  whereby  to  measure  our  path.  All  the  other 
wretched  inhabitants  had  retired  to  their  lairs  long 
ago.  The  guardian  boat  drifted  down-stream  some 
hours  before,  and  we  were  utterly  alone  by  the  crow- 
clump.  Gunga  Dass,  while  carrying  the  gun -barrels, 
let  slip  the  piece  of  paper  which  was  to  be  our  guide. 
I  stooped  down  hastily  to  recover  it,  and,  as  I  did  so,  1 
was  aware  that  the  creature  was  aiming  a  violent  blow 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE 


187 


at  the  back  of  my  head  with  the  gun-barrels.  It  was 
too  late  to  turn  round.  I  must  have  received  the  blow 
somewhere  on  the  nape  of  my  neck,  for  I  fell  senseless 
at  the  edge  of  the  quicksand. 

When  I  recovered  consciousness,  the  Moon  was  going 
down,  and  I  was  sensible  of  intolerable  pain  in  the  back 
of  my  head.  Gunga  Dass  had  disappeared  and  my 
mouth  was  full  of  blood.  I  lay  down  again  and  prayed 
that  I  might  die  without  more  ado.  Then  the  unrea¬ 
soning  fury  which  I  have  before  mentioned  laid  hold 
upon  me,  and  I  staggered  inland  towards  the  walls  of 
the  crater.  It  seemed  that  some  one  was  calling  to  me 
in  a  whisper  — 4  Sahib  !  Sahib  !  Sahib  !  ’  exactly  as  my 
bearer  used  to  call  me  in  the  mornings.  I  fancied  that 
I  was  delirious  until  a  handful  of  sand  fell  aJ  my  feet. 
Then  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  head  peering  a  >wn  into 
the  amphitheatre  —  the  hea  l  of  Dunnoo,  my  Tog-boy, 
who  attended  to  my  colli  s.  As  soon  as  he  Tad  at¬ 
tracted  my  attention,  he  held  up  his  hand  and  showed 
a  rope.  I  motioned,  staggering  to  and  fro  the  while, 
that  he  should  throw  it  down.  It  was  a  couple  of 
leather  punkah-ropes  knotted  together,  with  a  loop  at 
one  end.  I  slipped  the  loop  over  my  head  and  under 
my  arms  ;  heard  Dunnoo  urge  something  forward  ;  was 
conscious  that  I  was  being  dragged,  face  downward,  up 
the  steep  sand-slope,  and  the  next  instant  found  myself 
choked  and  half-fainting  on  the  sand  hills  overlooking 
the  crater.  Dunnoo,  with  his  face  ashy  gray  in  the 
moonlight,  implored  me  not  to  stay  but  to  get  back  to 
my  tent  at  once. 

It  seems  that  he  had  tracked  Pornic’s  footprints  four¬ 
teen  miles  across  the  sands  to  the  crater  ;  had  returned 


188 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


and  told  my  servants,  who  flatly  refused  to  meddle  with 
any  one,  white  or  black,  once  fallen  into  the  hideous 
Village  of  the  Dead  ;  whereupon  Dunnoo  had  taken 
one  of  my  ponies  and  a  couple  of  punkah  ropes,  re¬ 
turned  to  the  crater,  and  hauled  me  out  as  I  have 
described.. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


Brother  to  a  Prince  and  fellow  to  a  beggar  if  he  be  found  worthy. 

The  Law,  as  quoted,  lays  down  a  fair  conduct  of  life, 
and  one  not  easy  to  follow.  I  have  been  fellow  to  a  • 
beggar  again  and  again  under  circumstances  which  pre¬ 
vented  either  of  us  finding  out  whether  the  other  was 
worthy.  I  have  still  to  be  brother  to  a  Prince,  though 
I  once  came  near  to  kinship  with  what  might  have  been 
a  veritable  King  and  was  promised  the  reversion  of  a 
Kingdom  —  army,  law-courts,  revenue  and  policy  all 
complete.  But,  to-day,  I  greatly  fear  that  my  King 
is  dead,  and  if  I  want  a  crown  I  must  go  hunt  it  for 
myself. 

The  beginning  of  everything  was  in  a  railway  train 
upon  the  road  to  Mhow  from  Ajmir.  There  had  been 
a  Deficit  in  the  Budget,  which  necessitated  travelling, 
not  Second-class,  which  is  only  half  as  dear  as  First- 
class,  but  by  Intermediate,  which  is  very  awful  indeed. 
There  are  no  cushions  in  the  Intermediate  class,  and  the 
population  are  either  Intermediate,  which  is  Eurasian, 
or  native,  which  for  a  long  night  journey  is  nasty,  or 
Loafer,  which  is  amusing  though  intoxicated.  Inter¬ 
mediates  do  not  buy  from  refreshment-rooms.  They 
carry  their  food  in  bundles  and  pots,  and  buy  sweets 
Irom  the  native  sweetmeat-sellers,  and  drink  the  road¬ 
side  water.  Tnar  is  wny  in  hot  weather  Intermediates 

189 


190 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


are  taken  out  of  the  carriages  dead,  and  in  all  weathers 
are  most  properly  looked  down  upon. 

My  particular  Intermediate  happened  to  be  empty  till 
I  reached  Nasirabad,  when  a  big  black-browed  gentle¬ 
man  in  shirt-sleeves  entered,  and,  following  the  custom 
of  Intermediates,  passed  the  time  of  day.  He  was  a 
wanderer  and  a  vagabond  like  myself,  but  with  an 
educated  taste  for  whiskey.  He  told  tales  of  things 
he  had  seen  and  done,  of  out-of-the-way  corners  of 
the  Empire  into  which  he  had  penetrated,  and  of  ad¬ 
ventures  in  which  he  risked  his  life  for  a  few  days 
food. 

‘  If  India  was  filled  with  men  like  yon  and  me,  not 
knowing  more  than  the  crows  where  they’d  get  their 
next  day’s  rations,  it  isn’t  seventy  millions  of  revenue 
the  land  would  be  paying  —  it’s  seven  hundred  millions,’ 
said  he  ;  and  as  I  looked  at  his  mouth  and  chin  I  was 
disposed  to  agree  with  him. 

We  talked  politics  —  the  politics  of  Loaferdom  that 
sees  things  from  the  underside  where  the  lath  and 
plaster  is  not  smoothed  off  —  and  we  talked  postal 
arrangements  because  my  friend  wanted  to  send  a 
telegram  back  from  the  next  station  to  Ajmir,  the 
turning- off  place  from  the  Bombay  to  the  Mhow  line 
as  you  travel  westward.  My  friend  had  no  money 
beyond  eight  annas  which  he  wanted  for  dinner,  and 
I  had  no  money  at  all,  owing  to  the  hitch  in  the 
Budget  before  mentioned.  Further,  I  was  going  into 
a  wilderness  where,  though  I  should  resume  touch  with 
the  Treasury,  there  were  no  telegraph  offices.  I  was, 
therefore,  unable  to  help  him  in  any  way. 

^  We  might  threaten  a  Station-master,  and  make  him 
send  a  wire  on  tick,’  said  my  friend,  4  but  that’d  mean 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  101 

enquiries  for  you  and  for  me,  and  J’ve  got  my  hands 
full  these  days.  Did  you  say  you  were  travelling  back 
along  this  line  within  any  days  ?  ' 

4  Within  ten,'  I  said 

<  Can  t  you  make  it  eight  ?  *  said  he.  6  Mine  is  rather 
urgent  business.' 

‘  I  can  send  your  telegram  within  ten  days  if  that  will 
serve  you,’  I  said. 

4 1  couldn’t  trust  the  wire  to  fetch  him  now  I  think 
of  it.  It's  this  way.  He  leaves  Delhi  on  the  23rd  for 
Bombay.  That  means  he’ll  be  running  through  Ajmir 

about  the  night  of  the  23rd.’ 

4  But  I’m  going  into  the  Indian  Desert,  I  explained. 

‘Well  and  good,’  said  he.  ‘You’ll  be  changing  at 
Marwar  Junction  to  get  into  Jodlipore  territory  you 
must  do  that  —  and  he’ll  be  coming  through  Marwar 
Junction  in  the  early  morning  of  the  24th  by  the 
Bombay  Mail.  Can  you  be  at  Marwar  Junction  on 
that  time  ?  ’Twon’t  be  inconveniencing  you  because  I 
know  that  there's  precious  few  pickings  to  be  got  out 
of  these  Central  India  States  — even  though  you  pre< 
tend  to  be  correspondent  of  the  Backwoodsman .’ 

‘  Have  you  ever  tried  that  trick  ?  I  asked. 

‘  Again  and  again,  but  the  Residents  find  you  out, 
and  then  you  get  escorted  to  the  Border  before  you’ve 
time  to  get  your  knife  into  them.  But  about  my  friend 
here.  I  must  give  him  a  word  o’  mouth  to  tell  him 
what’s  come  to  me  or  else  he  won’t  know  where  to  go. 
I  would  take  it  more  than  kind  of  you  if  you  was  to 
come  out  of  Central  India  in  time  to  catch  him  at  Mar* 
war  Junction,  and  say  to  him  :  “  He  has  gone  South  for 
the  week.”  He’ll  know  what  that  means.  He  s  a  big 
man  with  a  red  beard,  and  a  great  swell  he  is.  You  11 


192 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


find  him  sleeping  like  a  gentleman  with  all  his  luggage 
round  him  in  a  Second-class  apartment.  But  don’t  you 
be  afraid.  Slip  down  the  window  and  say :  “  He  has 
gone  South  for  the  week,”  and  he’ll  tumble.  It’s  only 
cutting  your  time  of  stay  in  those  parts  by  two  days, 
I  ask  you  as  a  stranger — going  to  the  West,’  he  said 
with  emphasis. 

4  Where  have  you  come  from?  ’  said  I. 

4  From  the  East,’  said  he,  4  and  I  am  hoping  that  you 
will  give  him  the  message  on  the  Square  —  for  the 
sake  of  my  Mother  as  well  as  your  own.’ 

Englishmen  are  not  usually  softened  by  appeals  to 
the  memory  of  their  mothers ;  but  for  certain  reasons, 
which  will  be  fully  apparent,  I  saw  fit  to  agree. 

4  It’s  more  than  a  little  matter,’  said  he,  4  and  that’s 
why  I  asked  you  to  do  it  —  and  now  I  know  that  I  can 
depend  on  you  doing  it.  A  Second-class  carriage  at 
Marwar  Junction,  and  a  red-haired  man  asleep  in  it. 
You’ll  be  sure  to  remember.  I  get  out  at  the  next 
station,  and  I  must  hold  on  there  till  he  comes  or 
sends  me  what  I  want.’ 

4 I’ll  give  the  message  if  I  catch  him,’  I  said,  ‘and 
for  the  sake  of  your  Mother  as  well  as  mine  I’ll  give 
you  a  word  of  advice.  Don’t  try  to  run  the  Central 
India  States  just  now  as  the  correspondent  of  the 
Backwoodsman.  There’s  a  real  one  knocking  about 
here,  and  it  might  lead  to  trouble.’ 

‘Thank  you,’  said  he  simply,  ‘and  when  will  the 
swine  be  gone?  I  can’t  starve  because  he’s  ruining 
my  work.  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  Degumber 
Rajah  down  here  about  his  father’s  widow,  and  give 
him.  a  jump.’ 

*  What  did  he  do  to  his  father’s  widow,  then  ?  ’ 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  193 

« Filled  her  up  with  red  pepper  and  slippered  her 
to  death  as  she  hung  from  a  beam.  I  found  that  out 
myself  and  I’m  the  only  man  that  would  dare  going  into 
the  State  to  get  hush-money  for  it.  They’ll  try  to 
poison  me,  same  as  they  did  in  Chortumna  when  I  went 
on  the  loot  there.  But  you’ll  give  the  man  at  Mar  war 
Junction  my  message  ?  ’ 

He  got  out  at  a  little  roadside  station,  and  1  reflected. 
I  had  heard,  more  than  once,  of  men  personating  corre¬ 
spondents  of  newspapers  and  bleeding  small  Native 
States  with  threats  of  exposure,  but  I  had  never  met 
any  of  the  caste  before.  They  lead  a  hard  life,  and 
generally  die  with  great  suddenness.  The  Native 
States  have  a  wholesome  horror  of  English  newspapers, 
which  may  throw  light  on  their  peculiar  methods  of 
government,  and  do  their  best  to  choke  correspondents 
with  champagne,  or  drive  them  out  of  their  mind  with 
four-in-hand  barouches.  They  do  not  understand  that 
nobody  cares  a  straw  for  the  internal  administration  of 
Native  States  so  long  as  oppression  and  crime  are  kept 
within  decent  limits,  and  the  ruler  is  not  drugged, 
drunk,  or  diseased  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the 
other.  They  are  the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  full 
of  unimaginable  cruelty,  touching  the  Railway  and 
the  Telegraph  on  one  side,  and,  on  the  other,  the 
days  of  Harun-al-Raschid.  When  I  left  the  train  I 
did  business  with  divers  Kings,  and  in  eight  days 
passed  through  many  changes  of  life.  Sometimes  I 
wore  dress-clothes  and  consorted  with  Princes  and 
Politicals,  drinking  from  crystal  and  eating  from  sil¬ 
ver.  Sometimes  I  lay  out  upon  the  ground  and  de¬ 
voured  what  I  could  get,  from  a  plate  made  of  leaves, 
and  drank  the  running  water,  and  slept  under  the 


n 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


iy4 

same  rug  as  my  servant.  It  was  all  in  the  day’s 
work. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Great  Indian  Desert  upon 
the  proper  date,  as  I  had  promised,  and  the  night 
Mail  set  me  down  at  Mar  war  Junction,  where  a  funny 
little,  happy-go-lucky,  native-managed  railway  runs 
to  Jodhpore.  The  Bombay  Mail  from  Delhi  makes  a 
short  halt  at  Marwar.  She  arrived  as  I  got  in,  and 
I  had  just  time  to  hurry  to  her  platform  and  go  down 
the  carriages.  There  was  only  one  Second-class  on 
the  train.  1  slipped  the  window  and  looked  down 
upon  a  flaming  red  beard,  half  covered  by  a  railway 
rug.  That  was  my  man,  fast  asleep,  and  I  dug  him 
gently  in  the  ribs.  He  woke  with  a  grunt  and  I  saw 
his  face  in  the  light  of  the  lamps.  It  was  a  great 
and  shining  face. 

‘  Tickets  again  ?  ’  said  he. 

‘  No,’  said  I.  4 1  am  to  tell  you  that  he  is  gone  South 
for  the  week.  He  has  gone  South  for  the  week  !  ’ 

The  train  had  begun  to  move  out.  The  red  man 
rubbed  his  eyes.  4  He  has  gone  South  for  the  week, 
he  repeated.  -Now  that’s  just  like  his  impidence. 
Did  he  say  that  I  was  to  give  you  anything  ?  ’Cause 
I  won’t.’ 

‘He  didn’t,’  I  said  and  dropped  away,  and  watched 
the  red  lights  die  out  in  the  dark.  It  was  horribly 
cold  because  the  wind  was  blowing  off  the  sands.  1 
climbed  into  my  own  train  —  not  an  Intermediate  car¬ 
riage  this  time  —  and  went  to  sleep. 

If  the  man  with  the  beard  had  given  me  a  rupee 
I  should  have  kept  it  as  a  memento  of  a  rather  curious 
affair.  But  the  consciousness  of  having  done  my  dutv 
was  my  only  reward. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


!9o 


Later  on  I  reflected  that  two  gentlemen  like  my 
friends  could  not  do  any  good  if  they  foregathered 
and  personated  correspondents  of  newspapers,  and 
might,  if  they  black-mailed  one  of  the  little  rat-trap 
states  of  Central  India  or  Southern  Rajputana,  get 
themselves  into  serious  difficulties.  I  therefore  took 
some  trouble  to  describe  them  as  accurately  as  I  could 
remember  to  people  who  would  be  interested  in  de¬ 
porting  them  :  and  succeeded,  so  I  was  later  informed, 
in  having  them  headed  back  from  the  Degumber 
borders. 

Then  I  became  respectable,  and  returned  to  an 
Office  where  there  were  no  Kings  and  no  incidents 
outside  the  daily  manufacture  of  a  newspaper.  A 
newspaper  office  seems  to  attract  every  conceivable 
sort  of  person,  to  the  prejudice  of  discipline.  Zenana- 
mission  ladies  arrive,  and  beg  that  the  Editor  will 
instantly  abandon  all  his  duties  to  describe  a  Christian 
prize-giving  in  a  back- slum  of  a  perfectly  inaccessible 
village  ;  Colonels  who  have  been  overpassed  for  com¬ 
mand  sit  down  and  sketch  the  outline  of  a  series  of 
ten,  twelve,  or  twenty-four  leading  articles  on  Seniority 
verms  Selection  ;  missionaries  wish  to  know  why  they 
have  not  been  permitted  to  escape  from  their  regular 
vehicles  of  abuse  and  swear  at  a  brother-missionary 
under  special  patronage  of  the  editorial  We  ;  stranded 
theatrical  companies  troop  up  to  explain  that  they 
cannot  pay  for  their  advertisements,  but  on  their 
return  from  New  Zealand  or  Tahiti  will  do  so  with 
interest ;  inventors  of  patent  punkah-pulling  machines, 
carriage  couplings  and  unbreakable  swords  and  axle- 
trees  call  with  specifications  in  their  pockets  and  hours 
at  their  disposal ;  tea-companies  enter  and  elaborate 


196 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


their  prospectuses  with  the  office  pens ;  secretaries  ot 
ball-committees  clamour  to  have  the  glories  of  theji 
last  dance  more  fully  described  ;  strange  ladies  rustle 
in  and  say  :  4 1  want  a  hundred  lady’s  cards  printed  at 
once,  please,’  which  is  manifestly  part  of  an  Editor’s 
duty;  and  every  dissolute  ruffian  that  ever  tramped 
the  Grand  Trunk  Road  makes  it  his  business  to  ask  for 
employment  as  a  proof-reader.  And,  all  the  time,  the 
telephone-bell  is  ringing  madly,  and  Kings  are  being 
killed  on  the  Continent,  and  Empires  are  saying  — 
4  You’re  another,’  and  Mister  Gladstone  is  calling  down 
brimstone  upon  the  British  Dominions,  and  the  little 
black  copy-boys  are  whining,  4  Jcaa-pi  chay-lia-yeli  ’  (copy 
wanted)  like  tired  bees,  and  most  of  the  paper  is  as 
blank  as  Modred’s  shield. 

But  that  is  the  amusing  part  of  the  year.  There  are 
six  other  months  when  none  ever  come  to  call,  and  the 
thermometer  walks  inch  by  inch  up  to  the  top  of  the 
glass,  and  the  office  is  darkened  to  just  above  reading- 
light,  and  the  press-machines  are  red-hot  of  touch,  and 
nobody  writes  anything  but  accounts  of  amusements  in 
the  Hill-stations  or  obituary  notices.  Then  the  tele¬ 
phone  becomes  a  tinkling  terror,  because  it  tells  you  of 
the  sudden  deaths  of  men  and  women  that  you  knew 
intimately,  and  the  prickly-heat  covers  you  with  a 
garment,  and  you  sit  down  and  write :  4  A  slight  in¬ 
crease  of  sickness  is  reported  from  the  Khuda  Janta 
Khan  District.  The  outbreak  is  purely  sporadic  in  its 
nature,  and,  thanks  to  the  energetic  efforts  of  the 
District  authorities,  is  now  almost  at  an  end.  It  is, 
however,  with  deep  regret  we  record  the  death,’  etc. 

Then  the  sickness  really  breaks  out,  and  the  lesa 
recording  and  reporting  the  better  for  the  peace  of  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  197 

subscribers.  But  the  Empires  and  the  Kings  continue 
to  divert  themselves  as  selfishly  as  before,  and  the 
Foreman  thinks  that  a  daily  paper  really  ought  to 
come  out  once  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  all  the  people 
at  the  Hill-stations  in  the  middle  of  their  amusements 
say  s  <  Good  gracious  !  Why  can’t  the  paper  be  spark¬ 
ling?  I’m  sure  there’s  plenty  going  on  up  here.’ 

That  is  the  dark  half  of  the  moon,  and,  as  the  adver¬ 
tisements  say,  ‘must  be  experienced  to  be  appreciated.' 

It  was  in  that  season,  and  a  remarkably  evil  season, 
that  the  paper  began  running  the  last  issue  of  the 
week  on  Saturday  night,  which  is  to  say  Sunday  morn¬ 
ing,  after  the  custom  of  a  London  paper.  This  was  a 
great  convenience,  for  immediately  after  the  paper  was 
put  to  bed,  the  dawn  would  lower  the  thermometer 
from  96°  to  almost  84°  for  half  an  hour,  and  in  that 
chill  —  you  have  no  idea  how  cold  is  84°  on  the  grass 
until  you  begin  to  pray  for  it  —  a  very  tired  man  could 
get  off  to  sleep  ere  the  heat  roused  him. 

One  Saturday  night  it  was  my  pleasant  duty  to  put 
the  paper  to  bed  alone.  A  King  or  courtier  or  a 
courtesan  or  a  Community  was  going  to  die  or  get  a 
new  Constitution,  or  do  something  that  was  important 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  the  paper  was  to  be 
held  open  till  the  latest  possible  minute  in  order  to 
catch  the  telegram. 

It  was  a  pitchy  black  night,  as  stifling  as  a  June 
night  can  be,  and  the  loo ,  the  red-hot  wind  from  the 
westward,  was  booming  among  the  tinder-dry  trees 
and  pretending  that  the  rain  was  on  its  heels.  Now 
and  again  a  spot  of  almost  boiling  water  would  fall  on 
the  dust  with  the  flop  of  a  frog,  but  all  our  weary 
world  knew  that  was  only  pretence.  It  was  a,  shade 


M  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

00  J.er  in  tlie  press-room  than  the  office,  so  I  sat  there, 
whi'.e  the  type  ticked  and  clicked,  and  the  night-jars 
hooted  at  the  windows,  and  the  all  but  naked  composi¬ 
tors  wiped  the  sweat  from  their  foreheads,^  and  called 
for  water.  The  thing  that  was  keeping  us  back,  what¬ 
ever  it  was,  would  not  come  off,  though  the  loo  dropped 
and  the  last  type  was  set,  and  the  whole  round  earth 
stood  still  in  the  choking  heat,  with  its  finger  on  its 
lip,  to  wait  the  event.  I  drowsed,  and  wondered 
whether  the  telegraph  was  a  blessing,  and  whether  this 
dying  man,  or  struggling  people,  might  be  aware  o 
the  inconvenience  the  delay  was  causing.  There  \\  as 
no  special  reason  beyond  the  heat  and  worry  to  make 
tension,  but,  as  the  clock-hands  crept  up  to  three 
o’clock  and  the  machines  spun  their  fly-wheels  two  and 
three  times  to  see  that  all  was  in  order,  before  I  san 
the  word  that  would  set  them  off,  I  could  have 

shrieked  aloud. 

Then  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wheels  shivered  the 
quiet  into  little  bits.  I  rose  to  go  away,  but  two  men 
in  white  clothes  stood  in  front  of  me.  The  first  one 
said :  ‘  It’s  him  !  ’  The  second  said :  ‘So  it  is  I 
And  they  both  laughed  almost  as  loudly  as  the  machin¬ 
ery  roared,  and  mopped  their  foreheads.  ‘We  seed 
there  was  a  light  burning  across  the  road  and  we  were 
sleeping  in  that  ditch  there  for  coolness,  and  I  said  to 
my  friend  here,  The  office  is  open.  Let’s  come  along 
and  speak  to  him  as  turned  us  back  from  the  Degum- 
ber  State,’  said  the  smaller  of  the  two.  He  was  the 
man  I  had  met  in  the  Mhow  train,  and  his  fellow  was 
the  red-bearded  man  of  Marwar  Junction.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  eyebrows  of  the  one  or  the  beard  oi 

die  other. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


199 


I  vras  not  pleased,  because  I  wished  to  go  to  sleep, 
not  to  squabble  with  loafers.  4  What  do  you  want  ?  ’  1 
asked. 

‘  Half  an  hour’s  talk  with  you,  cool  and  comfortable, 
in  the  office,’  said  the  red-bearded  man.  ‘We’d  like 
some  drink  —  the  Contrack  doesn’t  begin  yet,  Peachey^ 
so  you  needn’t  look  —  but  what  we  really  want  is 
advice.  We  don’t  want  money.  We  ask  you  as  a 

favour,  because  we  found  out  you  did  us  a  bad  turn 

about  Degumber  State.’ 

I  led  from  the  press-room  to  the  stifling  office  with 
the  maps  on  the  walls,  and  the  red-haired  man  Tubbed 
his  hands.  ‘  That’s  something  like,’  said  he.  ‘  This 
was  the  proper  shop  to  come  to.  Now,  Sir,  let  me 
introduce  to  you  Brother  Peachey  Carnelian,  that’s 
him,  and  Brother  Daniel  Dravot,  that  is  me,  and  the 
less  said  about  our  professions  the  better,  for  we  have 
been  most  things  in  our  time.  Soldier,  sailor,  com¬ 
positor,  photographer,  proof-reader,  street-preacher, 
and  correspondents  of  the  Backwoodsman  when  we 
thought  the  paper  wanted  one.  Carnelian  is  sober, 

and  so  am  I.  Look  at  us  first,  and  see  that’s  sure.  It 

will  save  vou  cutting  into  my  talk.  We’ll  take  one  of 
your  cigars  apiece,  and  you  shall  see  us  light  up.’ 

I  watched  the  test.  The  men  were  absolutely  sober, 
so  I  gave  them  each  a  tepid  whiskey  and  soda. 

‘Well  and  good,’  said  Carnehan  of  the  eyebrows, 
wiping  the  froth  from  his  moustache.  ‘Let  me  talk 
now,  Dan.  We  have  been  all  over  India,  mostly  on 
foot.  We  have  been  boiler-fitters,  engine-drivers,  petty 
contractors,  and  all  that,  and  we  have  decided  that  India 
isn’t  big  enough  for  such  as  us.’ 

They  certainly  were  too  big  for  the  office.  Dravot’s 


200 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


beard  seemed  to  fill  half  the  room  and  Carnehan’s 
shoulders  the  other  half,  as  they  sat  on  the  big  table. 
Carnehan  continued  :  4  The  country  isn’t  half  worked 
out  because  they  that  governs  it  won’t  let  yon  touch 
it.  They  spend  all  their  blessed  time  in  governing  it, 
and  you  can’t  lift  a  spade,  nor  chip  a  rock,  nor  look  for 
oil,  nor  anything  like  that  without  all  the  Government 
saying —  “Leave  it  alone,  and  let  us  govern.”  There¬ 
fore,  such  as  it  is,  we  will  let  it  alone,  and  go  away  to 
some  other  place  where  a  man  isn’t  crowded  and  can 
come  to  his  own.  We  are  not  little  men,  and  there  is 
nothing  that  we  are  afraid  of  except  Drink,  and  we 
have  signed  a  Contrack  on  that.  Therefore ,  we  are 
going  away  to  be  Kings.’ 

4  Kings  in  our  own  right,’  muttered  Dravot. 

4  Yes,  of  course,’  I  said.  ‘You’ve  been  tramping  in 
the  sun,  and  it’s  a  very  warm  night,  and  hadn’t  you 
better  sleep  over  the  notion?  Come  to-morrow.’ 

‘Neither  drunk  nor  sunstruck,’  said  Dravot.  ‘We 
have  slept  over  the  notion  half  a  year,  and  require  to 
see  Books  and  Atlases,  and  we  have  decided  that  there 
is  only  one  place  now  in  the  world  that  two  strong  men 
can  Sar-a -whack.  They  call  it  Kafiristan.  By  my  reck¬ 
oning  it’s  the  top  right-hand  corner  of  Afghanistan,  not 
more  than  three  hundred  miles  from  Peshawar.  They 
have  two-and-thirty  heathen  idols  there,  and  we’ll  be 
the  thirty-third  and  fourth.  It’s  a  mountain eous  coun¬ 
try,  and  the  women  of  those  parts  are  very  beautiful.’ 

4  But  that  is  provided  against  in  the  Contrack,’  said 
Carnehan.  ‘Neither  Woman  nor  Liqu-or,  Daniel.’ 

‘And  that’s  all  we  know,  except  that  no  one  has 
gone  there,  and  they  fight,  and  in  any  place  where  they 
fight  a  man  who  knows  how  to  drill  men  can  always 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  201 

be  a  King.  W e  shall  go  to  those  parts  and  say  to  any 
King  we  find  —  “  D’you  want  to  vanquish  your  foes  ?  ” 
and  we  will  show  him  how  to  drill  men ;  for  that  we 
know  better  than  anything  else.  Then  we  will  sub* 
vert  that  King  and  seize  his  Throne  and  establish  a 
Dy-nasty.’ 

‘You’ll  be  cut  to  pieces  before  you’re  fifty  miles 
across  the  Border,'  I  said.  ‘You  have  to  travel 
through  Afghanistan  to  get  to  that  country.  It’s  one 
mass  of  mountains  and  peaks  and  glaciers,  and  no 
Englishman  has  been  through  it.  The  people  are 
utter  brutes,  and  even  if  you  reached  them  you 
couldn’t  do  anything.  ’ 

‘That’s  more  like,’  said  Carnehan.  ‘If  you  could 
think  us  a  little  more  mad  we  would  be  more  pleased. 
We  have  come  to  you  to  know  about  this  country,  to 
read  a  book  about  it,  and  to  be  shown  maps.  W e  want 
you  to  tell  us  that  we  are  fools  and  to  show  us  your 
books.’  He  turned  to  the  book-cases. 

‘  Are  you  at  all  in  earnest  ?  ’  I  said. 

4  A  little,’  said  Dravot  sweetly.  4  As  big  a  map  as 
you  have  got,  even  if  it’s  all  blank  where  Kafiristan  is, 
and  any  books  you’ve  got.  We  can  read,  though  we 
aren't  very  educated.  ’ 

I  uncased  the  big  thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch  map 
of  India,  and  two  smaller  Frontier  maps,  hauled  down 
volume  INF-KAU  of  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica ,  and 
the  men  consulted  them. 

4  See  here  !  ’  said  Dravot,  his  thumb  on  the  map. 
'Up  to  Jagdallak,  Peachey  and  me  know  the  road. 
We  was  there  with  Roberts’  Army.  We’ll  have  to 
turn  off  to  the  right  at  Jagdallak  through  Laghmann 
territory.  Then  we  get  among  the  hills  —  fourteen 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


202 

thousand  feet  —  fifteen  thousand  —  it  will  he  cold  work 
there,  hut  it  don’t  look  very  far  on  the  map.’ 

I  handed  him  Wood  on  the  Sources  of  the  Oxus. 
Carnehan  was  deep  in  the  Encyclopaedia. 

‘They’re  a  mixed  lot,’  said  Dravot  reflectively  ;  ‘and 
it  won’t  help  us  to  know  the  names  of  their  tribes. 
The  more  tribes  the  more  they’ll  fight,  and  the  better 
for  us.  From  Jagdallak  to  Ashang.  H’mm  ! 

‘  But  all  the  information  about  the  country  is  as 
sketchy  and  inaccurate  as  can  be,’  I  protested.  ‘No 
one  knows  anything  about  it  really.  Here’s  the  file  of 
the  United  Services'  Institute.  Read  what  Bellew  says. 

‘  Blow  Bellew  !  ’  said  Carnehan.  ‘  Dan,  they’re  a 
stinkin’  lot  of  heathens,  but  this  book  here  says  they 
think  they’re  related  to  us  English.’ 

I  smoked  while  the  men  pored  over  Eaverty ,  Wood , 
the  maps,  and  the  Encyclopaedia. 

‘There  is  no  use  your  waiting,’  said  Dravot  politely. 
‘It’s  about  four  o’clock  now.  We’ll  go  before  six 
o’clock  if  you  want  to  sleep,  and  we  won’t  steal  any 
of  the  papers.  Don’t  you  sit  up.  We’re  two  harmless 
lunatics,  and  if  you  come  to-morrow  evening  down  to 
the  Serai  we’ll  say  good-bye  to  you.’ 

‘You  are  two  fools,’  I  answered.  ‘You’ll  be  turned 
back  at  the  Frontier  or  cut  up  the  minute  you  set  foot 
in  Afghanistan.  Do  you  want  any  money  or  a  rec¬ 
ommendation  down-country?  I  can  help  you  to  the 

chance  of  work  next  week.’ 

‘Next  week  we  shall  be  hard  at  work  ourselves, 
thank  you,’  said  Dravot.  ‘It  isn’t  so  easy  being  a 
King  as  it  looks.  When  we’ve  got  our  Kingdom  in 
going  order  we’ll  let  you  know,  and  you  can  come  up 
and  help  us  to  govern  it.’ 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


203 


6  Would  two  lunatics  make  a  Contrack  like  that?’ 
said  Carnehan,  with  subdued  pride,  showing  me  a 
greasy  half-sheet  of  notepaper  on  which  was  written 
the  following.  I  copied  it,  then  and  there,  as  a 
curiosity  — 

This  Contract  between  me  and  you  persuing  witnesseth 
in  the  name  of  Cod  —  Amen  and  so  forth. 

( One )  That  me  and  you  will  settle  this  matter  to¬ 
gether  ;  i.e.,  to  be  Kings  of  Kafiristan. 

f  Two')  That  you  and  me  will  not ,  while  this  matter 
is  being  settled,  look  at  any  Liquor,  nor 
any  Woman  black,  white,  or  brown,  so  as 
to  qet  mixed  up  with  one  or  the  other  harm¬ 
ful. 

{Three)  That  we  conduct  ourselves  with  Dignity 
and  Discretion,  and  if  one  of  us  gets  into 
trouble  the  other  will  stay  by  him . 

Signed  by  you  and  me  this  day. 

Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan. 

Daniel  Dravot. 

Both  Grentlemen  at  Large . 

‘There  was  no  need  for  the  last  article,’  said  Carne= 
han,  blushing  modestly;  ‘but  it  looks  regular.  Now 
you  know  the  sort  of  men  that  loafers  are  —  we  are 
loafers,  Dan,  until  we  get  out  of  India  —  and  do  you 
think  that  we  would  sign  a  Contrack  like  that  unless 
we  was  in  earnest  ?  We  have  kept  away  from  the  two 
things  that  make  life  worth  having.’ 

‘  You  won’t  enjoy  your  lives  much  longer  if  you  are 
going  to  try  this  idiotic  adventure.  Don’t  set  the  office 
on  fire,’  I  said,  ‘  and  go  away  before  nine  o’clock.’ 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


204 

I  left  them  still  poring  over  the  maps  and  making 
notes  on  the  hack  of  the  ‘Contrack.’  ‘Be  sure  to 
come  down  to  the  Serai  to-morrow,’  were  their  parting 

words. 

The  Kumharsen  Serai  is  the  great  four-square  sink  of 
humanity  where  the  strings  of  camels  and  hordes  from 
the  North  load  and  unload.  All  the  nationalities  of 
Central  Asia  may  he  found  there,  and  most  of  the 
folk  of  India  proper.  Balkh  and  Bokhara  there  meet 
Bengal  and  Bombay,  and  try  to  draw  eye-teeth.  You 
can  buy  ponies,  turquoises,  Persian  pussy-cats,  saddle¬ 
bags,  fat-tailed  sheep  and  musk  in  the  Kumharsen 
Serai,  and  get  many  strange  things  for  nothing.  In 
the  afternoon  I  went  down  to  see  whether  my  friends 
intended  to  keep  their  word  or  were  lying  there  drunk. 

A  priest  attired  in  fragments  of  ribbons  and  rags 
stalked  up  to  me,  gravely  twisting  a  child  s  paper  whirli¬ 
gig.  Behind  him  was  his  servant  bending  under  the 
load  of  a  crate  of  mud  toys.  The  two  were  loading 
up  two  camels,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  Serai  watched 

them  with  shrieks  of  laughter. 

4  The  priest  is  mad,’  said  a  horse-dealer  to  me.  ‘  He 
is  going  up  to  Kabul  to  sell  toys  to  the  Amir.  He  will 
either  be  raised  to  honour  or  have  his  head  cut  off. 
came  in  here  this  morning  and  has  been  behaving  madly 
ever  since.’ 

4  The  witless  are  under  the  protection  of  God,’  stam¬ 
mered  a  flat-cl^eeked  Usbeg  in  broken  Hindi.  4  They 
foretell  future  events.’ 

‘Would  they  could  have  foretold  that  my  caravan 
would  have  been  cut  up  by  the  Shinwaris  almost 
within  shadow  of  the  Pass !  ’  grunted  the  Eusufzai 
agent  of  a  Rajputana  trading-house  whose  goods  had 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  205 

been  diverted  into  the  hands  of  other  robbers  just 
across  the  Border,  and  whose  misfortunes  were  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  bazar.  4  Ohe,  priest,  whence 
come  you  and  whither  do  you  go?’ 

4  From  Roum  have  I  come,’  shouted  the  priest,  wav¬ 
ing  his  whirligig ;  4  from  Roum,  blown  by  the  breath 
of  a  hundred  devils  across  the  sea !  O  thieves,  rob¬ 
bers,  liars,  the  blessing  of  Pir  Khan  on  pigs,  dogs,  and 
perjurers !  Who  will  take  the  Protected  of  God  to  the 
North  to  sell  charms  that  are  never  still  to  the  Amir? 
The  camels  shall  not  gall,  the  sons  shall  not  fall  sick, 
and  the  wives  shall  remain  faithful  while  they  are  away, 
of  the  men  who  give  me  place  in  their  caravan.  Who 
will  assist  me  to  slipper  the  King  of  the  Roos  with  a 
golden  slipper  with  a  silver  heel?  The  protection  of 
Pir  Khan  be  upon  his  labours  !  ’  He  spread  out  the 
skirts  of  his  gaberdine  and  pirouetted  between  the 
lines  of  tethered  horses. 

4  There  starts  a  caravan  from  Peshawar  to  Kabul 
in  twenty  days,  HuzrutJ  said  the  Eusufzai  trader. 
4  My  camels  go  therewith.  Do  thou  also  go  and  bring 
us  good-luck.’ 

4 1  will  go  even  now!  ’  shouted  the  priest.  4 1  will 
depart  upon  my  winged  camels,  and  be  at  Peshawar  in  a 
day!  Ho!  Hazar  Mir  Khan,’  he  yelled  to  his  servant, 
4  drive  out  the  camels,  but  let  me  first  mount  my  own.’ 

He  leaped  on  the  back  of  his  beast  as  it  knelt,  and, 
turning  round  to  me,  cried :  4  Come  thou  also,  Sahib,  a 
little  along  the  road,  and  I  will  sell  thee  a  charm  —  an 
amulet  that  shall  make  thee  King  of  Kafiristan.’ 

Then  the  light  broke  upon  me,  and  I  followed  the 
two  camels  out  of  the  Serai  till  we  reached  open  road 
and  the  priest  halted. 


206 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4  What  d’you  think  o’  that?’  said  he  in  English. 

4  Carnehan  can’t  talk  their  patter,  so  I’ve  made  him  my 
servant.  He  makes  a  handsome  servant.  Tisn  t  for 
nothing  that  I’ve  been  knocking  about  the  country  for 
fourteen  years.  Didn’t  I  do  that  talk  neat?  Well 
hitch  on  to  a  caravan  at  Peshawar  till  we  get  to  Jag- 
dallak,  and  then  we’ll  see  if  we  can  get  donkeys  for  our 
camels,  and  strike  into  Kafiristan.  Whirligigs  for  the 
Amir,  O  Lor  !  Put  your  hand  under  the  camel-bags 

and  tell  me  what  you  feel.’ 

I  felt  the  butt  of  a  Martini,  and  another  and  another. 

4  Twenty  of  ’em,’  said  Dravot  placidly.  4  Twenty  of 
’em  and  ammunition  to  correspond,  under  the  whirli¬ 
gigs  and  the  mud  dolls.’ 

4  Heaven  help  you  if  you  are  caught  with  those 
things !  ’  I  said.  4  A  Martini  is  worth  her  weight  in 
silver  among  the  Pathans.’ 

4  Fifteen  hundred  rupees  of  capital  —  every  rupee 
we  could  beg,  borrow,  or  steal  —  are  invested  on  these 
two  camels,’  said  Dravot.  4  We  won’t  get  caught. 
We’re  going  through  the  Khaiber  with  a  regular  cara¬ 
van.  Wlio’d  touch  a  poor  mad  priest  ?  ’ 

‘Have  you  got  everything  you  want?’  I  asked, 
overcome  with  astonishment. 

4  Not  yet,  but  we  shall  soon.  Give  us  a  memento  of 
your  kindness,  Brother .  You  did  me  a  service,  yester¬ 
day,  and  that  time  in  Marwar.  Half  my  Kingdom  shall 
you  have,  as  the  saying  is.’  I  slipped  a  small  charm  com¬ 
pass  from  my  watch  chain  and  handed  it  up  to  the  priest. 

4  Good-bye,’  said  Dravot,  giving  me  hand  cautiously. 
4  It’s  the  last  time  we’ll  shake  hands  with  an  English¬ 
man  these  many  days.  Shake  hands  with  him,  Carne¬ 
han,’  he  cried,  as  the  second  camel  passed  me. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  207 

Carnehan  leaned  down  and  shook  hands.  Then  the 
camels  passed  away  along  the  dusty  road,  and  I  was 
left  alone  to  wonder.  My  eye  could  detect  no  failure 
in  the  disguises.  The  scene  in  the  Serai  proved  that 
they  were  complete  to  the  native  mind.  There  was 
just  the  chance,  therefore,  that  Carnehan  and  Dravot 
would  be  able  to  wander  through  Afghanistan  without 
detection.  But,  beyond,  they  would  find  death  —  cer¬ 
tain  and  awful  death. 

Ten  days  later  a  native  correspondent  giving  me  the 
news  of  the  day  from  Peshawar,  wound  up  his  letter 
with  :  4  There  has  been  much  laughter  here  on  account 
of  a  certain  mad  priest  who  is  going  in  his  estimation 
to  sell  petty  gauds  and  insignificant  trinkets  which 
he  ascribes  as  great  charms  to  H.H.  the  Amir  of  Bok¬ 
hara.  He  passed  through  Peshawar  and  associated 
himself  to  the  Second  Summer  caravan  that  goes  to 
Kabul.  The  merchants  are  pleased  because  through 
superstition  they  imagine  that  such  mad  fellows  bring 
good-fortune.’ 

The  two,  then,  were  beyond  the  Border.  I  would 
have  prayed  for  them,  but,  that  night,  a  real  King  died 
in  Europe,  and  demanded  an  obituary  notice. 

********* 

The  wheel  of  the  world  swings  through  the  same 
phases  again  and  again.  Summer  passed  and  winter 
thereafter,  and  came  and  passed  again.  The  daily 
paper  continued  and  I  with  it,  and  upon  the  third 
summer  there  fell  a  hot  night,  a  night-issue,  and  a 
strained  waiting  for  something  to  be  telegraphed  from 
the  other  side  of  the  world,  exactly  as  had  happened 
before.  A  few  great  men  had  died  in  the  past  two 
years,  the  machines  worked  with  more  clatter,  and 


208 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


some  of  the  trees  in  the  Office  garden  were  a  few  feet 
taller.  But  that  was  all  the  difference. 

I  passed  over  to  the  press-room,  and  went  through 
just  such  a  scene  as  I  have  already  described.  The 
nervous  tension  was  stronger  than  it  had  been  two 
years  before,  and  I  felt  the  heat  more  acutely.  At 
three  o’clock  I  cried,  ‘Print  off,’  and  turned  to  go, 
when  there  crept  to  my  chair  what  was  left  of  a  man. 
He  was  bent  into  a  circle,  his  head  was  sunk  between 
his  shoulders,  and  he  moved  his  feet  one  over  the  other 
like  a  bear.  I  could  hardly  see  whether  he  walked  or 
crawled- — this  rag- wrapped,  whining  cripple  who  ad 
dressed  me  by  name,  crying  that  he  was  come  back. 

‘  Can  you  give  me  a  drink  ?  ’  he  whimpered  ‘  For  the 
Lord’s  sake,  give  me  a  drink!  ’ 

I  went  back  to  the  office,  the  man  following  with 
groans  of  pain,  and  I  turned  up  the  lamp. 

‘  Don’t  you  know  me  ?  ’  he  gasped,  dropping  into  a 
chair,  and  he  turned  his  drawn  face,  surmounted  by  a 
shock  of  gray  hair,  to  the  light. 

I  looked  at  him  intently  =  Once  before  had  I  seen 
eyebrows  that  met  over  the  nose  in  an  inch-broad  black 
band,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  tell  where. 

‘  I  don’t  know  you,5  I  said,  handing  him  the  whiskey. 
‘  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  ’ 

He  took  a  gulp  of  the  spirit  raw,  and  shivered  in 
spite  of  the  suffocating  heat. 

‘  I’ve  come  back,’  he  repeated ;  ‘  and  I  was  the  King 
of  Kafiristan  —  me  and  Dravot  —  crowned  Kings  we 
was  !  In  this  office  we  settled  it  —  you  setting  there 
and  giving  us  the  books.  I  am  Peachey  —  Peachey 
Taliaferro  Carnehan,  and  you’ve  been  setting  here  ever 
since  —  O  Lord  1  ’ 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  209 

I  was  more  than  a  little  astonished,  and  expressed 
my  feelings  accordingly. 

‘  It’s  true,’  said  Carnehan,  with  a  dry  cackle,  nursing 
his  feet,  which  were  wrapped  in  rags.  4  True  as  gos¬ 
pel.  Kings  we  were,  with  crowns  upon  onr  heads  — 
me  and  Dravot  —  poor  Dan  —  oh,  poor,  poor  Dan,  that 
would  never  take  advice,  not  though  I  begged  of  him !  ’ 

4  Take  the  whiskey,  ’  I  said,  4  and  take  your  own 
time.  Tell  me  all  you  can  recollect  of  everything 
from  beginning  to  end.  You  got  across  the  border 
on  your  camels,  Dravot  dressed  as  a  mad  priest  and 
you  his  servant.  Do  you  remember  that  ? ' 

4 1  ain’t  mad  —  yet,  but  I  shall  be  that  way  soon.  Of 
course  I  remember.  Keep  looking  at  me,  or  maybe  my 
words  will  go  all  to  pieces.  Keep  looking  at  me  in 
my  eyes  and  don’t  say  anything.’ 

I  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  his  face  as  steadily 
as  I  could,  He  dropped  one  hand  upon  the  table  and 
I  grasped  it  by  the  wrist.  It  was  twisted  like  a  bird’s 
claw,  and  upon  the  back  was  a  ragged,  red,  diamond¬ 
shaped  scar. 

4  No,  don’t  look  there.  Look  at  me ,’  said  Carnehan. 
4  That  comes  afterwards,  but  for  the  Lord’s  sake  don’t 
distrack  me.  We  left  with  that  caravan,  me  and  Dravot 
playing  all  sorts  of  antics  to  amuse  the  people  we  were 
with  Dravot  used  to  make  us  laugh  in  the  evenings 
when  all  the  people  was  cooking  their  dinners  —  cook¬ 
ing  their  dinners,  and  .  ,  .  what  did  they  do  then  ? 
They  lit  little  fires  with  sparks  that  went  into  Dravot’s 
beard,  and  we  all  laughed  —  fit  to  die.  Little  red  fires 
they  was,  going  into  Dravot’s  big  red  beard  —  so  funny.’ 
His  eyes  left  mine  and  he  smiled  foolishly. 

4  You  went  as  far  as  Jagdallak  with  that  caravan,’  I 


210 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


i 


said  at  a  venture,  ‘after  you  had  lit  those  fires.  To 
Jagdallak,  where  you  turned  off  to  try  to  get  into 
Kafiristan.’ 

‘  No,  we  didn’t  neither.  What  are  you  talking  about  ? 
We  turned  off  before  Jagdallak,  because  we  heard  the 
roads  was  good.  But  they  ivasn’t  good  enough  for  our 
two  camels  —  mine  and  Dravot’s.  When  we  left  the 
caravan,  Dravot  took  off  all  his  clothes  and  mine  too, 
and  said  we  would  be  heathen,  because  the  Kafirs  didn’t 
allow  Mohammedans  to  talk  to  them.  So  we  dressed 
betwixt  and  between,  and  such  a  sight  as  Daniel  Dravot 
I  never  saw  yet  nor  expect  to  see  again.  He  burned 
half  his  beard,  and  slung  a  sheep-skin  over  his  shoulder, 
and  shaved  his  head  into  patterns.  He  shaved  mine, 
too,  and  made  me  wear  outrageous  things  to  look  like 
a  heathen.  That  was  in  a  most  mountaineous  country, 
and  our  camels  couldn’t  go  along  any  more  because  of 
the  mountains.  They  were  tall  and  black,  and  coming 
home  I  saw  them  fight  like  wild  goats  —  there  are  lots 
of  goats  in  Kafiristan.  And  these  mountains,  they 
never  keep  still,  no  more  than  the  goats.  Always 
fighting  they  are,  and  don’t  let  you  sleep  at  night. 

‘Take  some  more  whiskey,’  I  said  very  slowly. 
‘  What  did  you  and  Daniel  Dravot  do  when  the  camels 
could  go  no  further  because  of  the  rough  roads  that  led 
into  Kafiristan  ?  ’ 

‘  What  did  which  do  ?  There  was  a  party  called 
Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan  that  was  with  Dravoh 
Shall  I  tell  you  about  him  ?  He  died  out  there  in  the 
cold.  Slap  from  the  bridge  fell  old  Peachey,  turning 
and  twisting  in  the  air  like  a  penny  whirligig  that  you 
can  sell  to  the  Amir.  — No,  they  was  two  for  three 
ha’pence,  those  whirligigs,  or  I  am  much  mistaken  and 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


211 


(voeful  sore .  .  ,  „  And  then  these  camels  were  no  use, 
and  Peachey  said  to  Dravot  —  “For  the  Lord’s  sake 
let’s  get  out  of  this  before  our  heads  are  chopped  off,” 
and  with  that  they  killed  the  camels  all  among  the 
mountains,  not  haying  anything  in  particular  to  eat, 
but  first  they  took  off  the  boxes  with  the  guns  and  the 
ammunition,  till  two  men  came  along  driving  four 
mules.  Dravot  up  and  dances  in  front  of  them,  sing¬ 
ing  —  “  Sell  me  four  mules.”  Says  the  first  man  —  “  If 
you  are  rich  enough  to  buy,  you  are  rich  enough  to 
rob  ;  ”  but  before  ever  he  could  put  his  hand  to  his 
knife,  Dravot  breaks  his  neck  over  his  knee,  and  the 
other  party  runs  away.  So  Carnehan  loaded  the  mules 
with  the  rifles  that  was  taken  off  the  camels,  and  to¬ 
gether  we  starts  forward  into  those  bitter  cold  moun- 
taineous  parts,  and  never  a  road  broader  than  the  back 
of  your  hand,’  . 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  I  asked  him  if  he  could 
remember  the  nature  of  the  country  through  which  he 
had  journeyed. 

x  I  am  telling  you  as  straight  as  I  can,  but  my  head 
isn’t  as  good  as  it  might  be.  They  drove  nails  through 
it  to  make  me  hear  better  how  Dravot  died.  The 
country  was  mountaineous  and  the  mules  were  most 
contrary,  and  the  inhabitants  was  dispersed  and  soli¬ 
tary.  They  went  up  and  up,  and  down  and  down,  and 
that  other  party,  Carnehan,  was  imploring  of  Dravot 
not  to  sing  and  whistle  so  loud,  for  fear  of  bringing 
down  the  tremenjus  avalanches.  But  Dravot  says  that 
if  a  King  couldn’t  sing  it  wasn’t  worth  being  King, 
and  whacked  the  mules  over  the  rump,  and  never  took 
no  heed  for  ten  cold  days.  We  came  to  a  big  level 
valley  all  among  the  mountains,  and  the  mules  were 


212 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


near  dead,  so  we  killed  them,  not  having  anything  in 
speeial  for  them  or  us  to  eat.  W e  sat  upon  the  boxes, 
and  played  odd  and  even  with  the  cartridges  that  was 
jolted  out. 

4  Then  ten  men  with  bows  and  arrows  ran  down  that 
valley,  chasing  twenty  men  with  bows  and  arrows, 
and  the  row  was  tremenjus.  They  was  fair  men  — 
fairer  than  you  or  me  —  with  yellow  hair  and  remarkable 
well  built.  Says  Dravot,  unpacking  the  guns —  “  This 
is  the  beginning  of  the  business.  We’ll  fight  for  the 
ten  men,”  and  with  that  he  fires  two  rifles  at  the 
twenty  men,  and  drops  one  of  them  at  two  hundred 
yards  from  the  rock  where  he  was  sitting.  The  other 
men  began  to  run,  but  Carnehan  and  Dravot  sits  on 
the  boxes  picking  them  off  at  all  ranges,  up  and  down 
the  valley.  Then  we  goes  up  to  the  ten  men  that  had 
run  across  the  snow  too,  and  they  fires  a  footy  little 
arrow  at  us.  Dravot  he  shoots  above  their  heads  and 
they  all  falls  down  flat.  Then  he  walks  over  them  and 
kicks  them,  and  then  he  lifts  them  up  and  shakes  hands 
all  round  to  make  them  friendly  like.  He  calls  them 
and  gives  them  the  boxes  to  carry,  and  waves  his  hand 
for  all  the  world  as  though  he  was  King  already= 
They  takes  the  boxes  and  him  across  the  valley  and  up 
the  hill  into  a  pine  wood  on  the  top,  where  there  was 
half  a  dozen  big  stone  idols.  Dravot  he  goes  to  the 
biggest  —  a  fellow  they  call  Imbra  —  and  lays  a  rifle 
and  a  cartridge  at  his  feet,  rubbing  his  nose  respectful 
with  his  own  nose,  patting  him  on  the  head,  and  salut¬ 
ing  in  front  of  it.  He  turns  round  to  the  men  and 
nods  his  head,  and  says — “That’s  all  right.  I’m  in 
the  know  too,  and  all  these  old  jim-jams  are  my 
friends.”  Then  he  opens  his  mouth  and  points  down 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


213 


it,  and  when  the  first  man  brings  him  food,  he  says — ■ 
“No  ;  ”  and  when  the  second  man  brings  him  food  he 
says  —  “No  ;  ”  but  when  one  of  the  old  priests  and  the 
boss  of  the  village  brings  him  food,  he  says  —  “Yes  ;  ” 
very  haughty,  and  eats  it  slow.  That  was  how  he 
came  to  our  first  village,  without  any  trouble,  just  as 
though  we  had  tumbled  from  the  skies.  But  we 
tumbled  from  one  of  those  damned  rope-bridges,  you 
see  and  —  you  couldn’t  expect  a  man  to  laugh  much 
after  that  ?  ’ 

4  Take  some  more  whiskey  and  go  on,’  I  said.  4  That 
was  the  first  village  you  came  into.  How  did  you  get 
to  be  King  ?  ’ 

4 1  wasn’t  King,’  said  Carnehan.  4  Dravot  he  was  the 
King,  and  a  handsome  man  he  looked  with  the  gold 
crown  on  his  head  and  all.  Him  and  the  other  party 
stayed  in  that  village,  and  every  morning  Dravot  sat 
by  the  side  of  old  Imbra,  and  the  people  came  and  wor¬ 
shipped.  That  was  Dravot’s  order.  Then  a  lot  of  men 
came  into  the  valley,  and  Carnehan  Dravot  picks  them 
off  with  the  rifles  before  they  knew  where  they  was, 
and  runs  down  into  the  valley  and  up  again  the  other 
side  arid  finds  another  village,  came  as  the  first  one, 
and  the  people  all  falls  down  flat  on  their  faces,  and 
Dravot  says  — 44  Now  what  is  the  trouble  between  you 
two  villages  ?  ”  and  the  people  points  to  a  woman,  as 
fair  as  you  or  me,  that  was  carried  off,  and  Dravot 
takes  her  back  to  the  first  village  and  counts  up  the 
dead  —  eight  there  was.  For  each  dead  man  Dravot 
pours  a  little  milk  on  the  ground  and  waves  his  arms 
like  a  whirligig  and  44  That’s  all  right,”  says  he.  Then 
he  and  Carnehan  takes  the  big  boss  of  each  village  by 
the  arm  and  walks  them  down  into  the  valley,  and 


214 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


shows  them  how  to  scratch  a  line  with  a  spear  right 
down  the  valley,  and  gives  each  a  sod  of  turf  from 
both  sides  of  the  line.  Then  all  the  people  comes 
down  and  shouts  like  the  devil  and  all,  and  Dravot 
sayS  —  “Go  and  dig  the  land,  and  be  fruitful  and  mul¬ 
tiply,”  which  they  did,  though  they  didn’t  understand. 
Then  we  asks  the  names  of  things  in  their  lingo  — 
bread  and  water  and  fire  and  idols  and  such,  and 
Dravot  leads  the  priest  of  each  village  up  to  the  idol, 
and  says  he  must  sit  there  and  judge  the  people,  and  if 
anything  goes  wrong  he  is  to  be  shot. 

‘Next  week  they  was  all  turning  up  the  land  in  the 
valley  as  quiet  as  bees  and  much  prettier,  and  the 
priests  heard  all  the  complaints  and  told  Dravot  in 
dumb  show  what  it  was  about.  “  That’s  just  the 
beginning,”  says  Dravot.  “  They  think  we’re  Gods.” 
He  and  Carnelxan  picks  out  twenty  good  men  and 
shows  them  how  to  click  off  a  rifle,  and  form  fours, 
and  advance  in  line,  and  they  was  very  pleased  to  do 
so,  and  clever  to  see  the  hang  of  it.  Then  he  takes  out 
his  pipe  and  his  baccy-pouch  and  leaves  one  at  one 
village,  and  one  at  the  other,  and  off  we  two  goes  to 
see  what  was  to  be  done  in  the  next  valley.  That  was 
all  rock,  and  there  was  a  little  village  there,  and  Carne- 
han  says  —  “  Send  ’em  to  the  old  valley  to  plant,”  and 
takes  ’em  there  and  gives  ’em  some  land  that  wasn’t 
took  before.  They  were  a  poor  lot,  and  we  blooded 
’em  with  a  kid  before  letting  ’em  into  the  new  King¬ 
dom.  That  was  to  impress  the  people,  and  then  they 
settled  down  quiet,  and  Carnehan  went  back  to  Dravot 
who  had  got  into  another  valley,  all  snow  and  ice  and 
most  mountaineous.  There  was  no  people  there  and 
the  Army  got  afraid,  so  Dravot  shoots  one  of  them, 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


215 


and  goes  on  till  lie  finds  some  people  in  a  village,  and 
the  Army  explains  that  unless  the  people  wants  to 
be  killed  they  had  better  not  shoot  their  little  match¬ 
locks  ,  for  they  had  matchlocks.  We  makes  friends 
with  the  priest  and  I  stays  there  alone  with  two  of  the 
Army,  teaching  the  men  how  to  drill,  and  a  thundering 
big  Chief  comes  across  the  snow  with  kettle-drums  and 
horns  twanging,  because  he  heard  there  was  a  new 
God  kicking  about.  Carnehan  sights  for  the  brown 
of  the  men  half  a  mile  across  the  snow  and  wings  one 
of  them.  Then  he  sends  a  message  to  the  Chief  that, 
unless  he  wished  to  be  killed,  he  must  come  and  shake 
hands  with  me  and  leave  his  arms  behind.  The  Chief 
comes  alone  first,  and  Carnehan  shakes  hands  with  him 
and  whirls  his  arms  about,  same  as  Dravot  used,  and 
very  much  surprised  that  Chief  was,  and  strokes  my 
eyebrows.  Then  Carnehan  goes  alone  to  the  Chief, 
and  asks  him  in  dumb  show  if  he  had  an  enemy  he 
hated.  “  I  have,”  says  the  Chief.  So  Carnehan  weeds 
out  the  pick  of  his  men,  and  sets  the  two  of  the  Army 
to  show  them  drill  and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  the 
men  can  manoeuvre  about  as  well  as  Volunteers.  So 
he  marches  with  the  Chief  to  a  great  big  plain  on  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  and  the  Chief’s  men  rushes  into 
a  village  and  takes  it ;  we  three  Martinis  firing  into 
the  brown  of  the  enemy.  So  we  took  that  village  too, 
and  I  gives  the  Chief  a  rag  from  my  coat  and  says, 
“  Occupy  till  I  come  ;  ”  which  was  scriptural.  By  way 
of  a  reminder,  when  me  and  the  Army  was  eighteen 
hundred  yards  away,  I  drops  a  bullet  near  him  stand¬ 
ing  on  the  snow,  and  all  the  people  falls  flat  on  their 
faces.  Then  I  sends  a  letter  to  Dravot  wherever  he  be 
by  land  or  by  sea.’ 


216 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


At  the  risk  of  throwing  the  creature  out  of  train 
I  interrupted  — 4  How  could  you  write  a  letter  up 
yonder  ? ’ 

4  The  letter  ?  —  Oh!  —  The  letter  !  Keep  looking 
at  me  between  the  eyes,  please.  It  was  a  string-talk 
letter,  that  we’d  learned  the  way  of  it  from  a  blind 
beggar  in  the  Punjab.’ 

I  remember  that  there  had  once  come  to  the  office  a 
blind  man  with  a  knotted  twig  and  a  piece  of  string 
which  he  wound  round  the  twig  according  to  some 
cipher  of  his  own.  He  could,  after  the  lapse  of  days 
or  hours,  repeat  the  sentence  which  he  had  reeled  up. 
He  had  reduced  the  alphabet  to  eleven  primitive  sounds; 
and  tried  to  teach  me  his  method,  but  I  could  not 
understand. 

4 1  sent  that  letter  to  Dravot,’  said  Carnehan ;  4  and 
told  him  to  come  back  because  this  Kingdom  was 
growing  too  big  for  me  to  handle,  and  then  I  struck  for 
the  first  valley,  to  see  how  the  priests  were  working. 
They  called  the  village  we  took  along  with  the  Chief, 
Bashkai,  and  the  first  village  we  took,  Er-Heb.  The 
priests  at  Er-Heb  was  doing  all  right,  but  they  had  a 
lot  of  pending  cases  about  land  to  show  me,  and  some 
men  from  another  village  had  been  firing  arrows  at 
night.  I  went  out  and  looked  for  that  village,  and 
fired  four  rounds  at  it  from  a  thousand  yards.  That 
used  all  the  cartridges  I  cared  to  spend,  and  I  waited 
for  Dravot,  who  had  been  away  two  or  three  months, 
and  I  kept  my  people  quiet. 

4  One  morning  I  heard  the  devil’s  own  noise  of 
drums  and  horns,  and  Dan  Dravot  marches  down  the 
hill  with  his  Army  and  a  tail  of  hundreds  of  men,  and, 
which  was  the  most  amazing,  a  great  gold  crown  on  his 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


217 


head.  44  My  Gord,  Carnehan,”  says  Daniel,  1,4  this  is  a 
tremenjus  business,  and  we’ve  got  the  whole  country 
as  far  as  it’s  worth  having.  I  am  the  son  of  Alexander 
by  Queen  Semiramis,  and  you’re  my  younger  brother 
and  a  God  too!  It’s  the  biggest  thing  we’ve  ever  seen. 
I’ve  been  marching  and  fighting  for  six  weeks  with  the 
Army,  and  every  footy  little  village  for  fifty  miles  has 
come  in  rejoiceful ;  and  more  than  that,  I’ve  got  the 
key  of  the  whole  show,  as  you’ll  see,  and  I’ve  got  a 
crown  for  you !  I  told  ’em  to  make  two  of  ’em  at  a 
place  called  Shu,  where  the  gold  lies  in  the  rock  like 
suet  in  mutton.  Gold  I’ve  seen,  and  turquoise  I’ve 
kicked  out  of  the  cliffs,  and  there’s  garnets  in  the  sands 
of  the  river,  and  here’s  a  chunk  of  amber  that  a  man 
brought  me.  Call  up  all  the  priests  and,  here,  take 
your  crown.” 

4  One  of  the  men  opens  a  black  hair  bag,  and  I  slips 
the  crown  on.  It  was  too  small  and  too  heavy,  but  I 
wore  it  for  the  glory.  Hammered  gold  it  was  —  five 
pound  weight,  like  a  hoop  of  a  barrel, 

4  44  Peachey,”  says  Dravot,  44  we  don’t  want  to  fight 
no  more.  The  Craft’s  the  trick  so  help  me!  ”  and  he 
brings  forward  that  same  Chief  that  I  left  at  Baslikai 
—  Billy  Fish  we  called  him  afterwards,  because  he  was 
so  like  Billy  Fish  that  drove  the  big  tank-engine  at 
Mach  on  the  Bolan  in  the  old  days.  44  Shake  hands 
with  him,”  says  Dravot,  and  I  shook  hands  and  nearly 
dropped,  for  Billy  Fish  gave  me  the  Grip.  I  said 
nothing,  but  tried  him  with  the  Fellow  Craft  Grip. 
He  answers,  all  right,  and  I  tried  the  Master’s  Grip, 
but  that  was  a  slip.  44  A  Fellow  Craft  he  is!  ”  I  says 
to  Dan.  44  Does  he  knew  the  word?”  — 44  He  does.” 
says  Dan,  44  and  all  the  priests  know.  It’s  a  miracles 


218 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


The  Chiefs  and  the  priests  can  work  a  Fellow  Craft 
Lodge  in  a  way  that’s  very  like  ours,  and  they’ve  cut 
the  marks  on  the  rocks,  but  they  don’t  know  the  Third 
Degree,  and  they’ve  come  to  find  out.  It’s  Gord's 
Truth.  I’ve  known  these  long  years  that  the  Afghans 
knew  up  to  the  Fellow  Craft  Degree,  but  this  is  a 
miracle.  A  God  and  a  Grand-Master  of  the  Craft  am 
I,  and  a  Lodge  in  the  Third  Degree  I  will  open,  and 
we’ll  raise  the  head  priests  and  the  Chiefs  of  the  vil¬ 


lages.” 

‘  “  It’s  against  all  the  law,”  I  says,  “holding  a  Lodge 
without  warrant  from  any  one;  and  you  know  we  never 
held  office  in  any  Lodge.” 

‘ “ It’s  a  master-stroke  o’  policy,”  says  Dravot.  “  It 
means  running  the  country  as  easy  as  a  four-wheeled 
bogie  on  a  down  grade.  We  can’t  stop  to  enquire  now, 
or  they’ll  turn  against  us.  I’ve  forty  Chiefs  at  my 
heel,  and  passed  and  raised  according  to  their  merit 
they  shall  be.  Billet  these  men  on  the  villages,  and 
see  that  we  run  up  a  Lodge  of  some  kind.  The  temple 
of  Imbra  will  do  for  the  Lodge-room.  The  women 
must  make  aprons  as  you  show  them.  I’ll  hold  a  lever 
of  Chiefs  to-night  and  Lodge  to-morrow.” 

4 1  was  fair  run  off  my  legs,  but  I  wasn’t  such  a  fool 
as  not  to  see  what  a  pull  this  Craft  business  gave  us.  I 
showed  the  priests’  families  how  to  make  aprons  of  the 
degrees,  but  for  Dravot’s  apron  the  blue  border  and 
marks  was  made  of  turquoise  lumps  on  white  hide,  not 
cloth.  We  took  a  great  square  stone  in  the  temple  for 
the  Master’s  chair,  and  little  stones  for  the  officers’ 
chairs,  and  painted  the  black  pavement  with  white 
squares,  and  did  what  we  could  to  make  things 


regular. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


219 


4  At  the  levee  which  was  held  that  night  on  the  hill¬ 
side  with  big  bonfires,  Dravot  gives  out  that  him  and 
me  were  Gods  and  sons  of  Alexander,  and  Past  Grand- 
Masters  in  the  Craft,  and  was  come  to  make  Kafiristan 
a  country  where  every  man  should  eat  in  peace  and 
drink  in  quiet,  and  specially  obey  us.  Then  the  Chiefs 
come  round  to  shake  hands,  and  they  were  so  hairy  and 
white  and  fair  it  was  just  shaking  hands  with  old 
friends.  We  gave  them  names  according  as  they  was 
like  men  we  had  known  in  India  —  Billy  Fish,  Holly 
Dilworth,  Pikky  Kergan,  that  was  Bazar-master  when 
I  was  at  Mhow,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 

‘  The  most  amazing  miracles  was  at  Lodge  next  night. 
One  of  the  old  priests  was  watching  us  continuous,  and 
I  felt  uneasy,  for  I  knew  we’d  have  to  fudge  the  Ritual 
and  I  didn’t  know  what  the  men  knew.  The  old  priesi 
was  a  stranger  come  in  from  beyond  the  village  oi 
Bashkai.  The  minute  Dravot  puts  on  the  Master’s 
apron  that  the  girls  had  made  for  him,  the  priest 
fetches  a  whoop  and  a  howl,  and  tries  to  overturn 
the  stone  that  Dravot  was  sitting  on.  44  It’s  all  up 
now,”  I  says.  44  That  comes  of  meddling  with  the 
Craft  without  warrant !  ”  Dravot  never  winked  an 
eye,  not  when  ten  priests  took  and  tilted  over  the 
Grand-Master’s  chair  —  which  was  to  say  the  stone  of 
Imbra.  The  priest  begins  rubbing  the  bottom  end  of 
it  to  clear  away  the  black  dirt,  and  presently  he  shows 
all  the  other  priests  the  Master’s  Mark,  same  as  was  on 
Dravot’s  apron,  cut  into  the  stone.  Not  even  the  priests 
of  the  temple  of  Imbra  knew  it  was  there.  The  old  chap 
falls  fiat  on  his  face  at  Dravot’s  feet  and  kisses  ’em. 
“Luck  again,”  says  Dravot,  across  the  Lodge  to  me. 
“they  say  it’s  the  missing  Mark  that  no  one  could 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


220 

understand  the  why  of.  We’re  more  than  safe  now.” 
Then  he  bangs  the  butt  of  his  gun  for  a  gavel  and 
says  :  “  By  virtue  of  the  authority  vested  in  me  by 
my  own  right  hand  and  the  help  of  P eachey ,  I  declare 
myself  Grand-Master  of  all  Freemasonry  in  Kafiristan 
in  this  the  Mother  Lodge  o’  the  country,  and  King  of 
Kafiristan  equally  with  Peachey  !  ”  At  that  he  puts 
on  his  crown  and  I  puts  on  mine  —  I  was  doing  Senior 
Warden  —  and  we  opens  the  Lodge  in  most  ample  form. 
It  was  a  amazing  miracle!  The  priests  moved  in  Lodge 
through  the  first  two  degrees  almost  without  telling,  as 
if  the  memory  was  coming  hack  to  them.  After  that, 
Peachey  and  Dravot  raised  such  as  was  worthy  —  high 
priests  and  Chiefs  of  far-off  villages.  Billy  Fish  was 
the  first,  and  I  can  tell  you  we  scared  the  soul  out  of 
him.  It  was  not  in  any  way  according  to  Ritual,  but 
it  served  our  turn.  We  didn’t  raise  more  than  ten  of 
the  biggest  men,  because  we  didn’t  want  to  make  the 
Degree  common.  And  they  was  clamouring  to  he 

raised. 

4  “  In  another  six  months,”  says  Dravot,  “  we’fl  hold 
another  Communication,  and  see  how  you  are  work¬ 
ing.”  Then  he  asks  them  about  their  villages,  and 
learns  that  they  was  fighting  one  against  the  other, 
and  were  sick  and  tired  of  it.  And  when  they  wasn  t 
doing  that  they  was  fighting  with  the  Mohammedans. 
“You  can  fight  those  when  they  come  into  our  coun¬ 
try,”  says  Dravot.  44  Tell  off  every  tenth  man  of  your 
tribes  for  a  Frontier  guard,  and  send  two  hundred  at 
a  time  to  this  valley  to  be  drilled.  Nobody  is  going 
to  be  shot  or  speared  any  more  so  long  as  he  does  well, 
and  I  know  that  you  won’t  cheat  me,  because  you  re 
white  people  —  sons  of  Alexander — and  not  like  com' 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  221 

mon,  black  Mohammedans.  You  are  my  people,  and  by 
God,”  says  he,  running  off  into  English  at  the  end  — 
“I’ll  make  a  damned  fine  Nation  of  you,  or  I’ll  die  in 
the  making  \  ” 

‘I  can’t  tell  all  we  did  for  the  next  six  months,  be¬ 
cause  Dravot  did  a  lot  I  couldn’t  see  the  hang  of,  and 
lie  learned  their  lingo  in  a  way  I  never  could.  My 
work  was  to  help  the  people  plough,  and  now  and 
again  go  out  with  some  of  the  Army  and  see  what  the 
other  villages  were  doing,  and  make  ’em  throw  rope- 
bridges  across  the  ravines  which  cut  up  the  country 
horrid.  Dravot  was  very  kind  to  me,  but  when  he 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  pine  wood  pulling  that 
bloody  red  beard  of  his  with  both  fists  I  knew  he  was 
thinking  plans  I  could  not  advise  about,  and  I  just 
waited  for  orders. 

4  But  Dravot  never  showed  me  disrespect  before 
the  people.  They  were  afraid  of  me  and  the  Army, 
but  they  loved  Dam  He  was  the  best  of  friends  with 
the  priests  and  the  Chiefs  ;  but  any  one  could  come 
across  the  hills  with  a  complaint,  and  Dravot  would 
hear  him  out  fair,  and  call  four  priests  together  and 
say  what  was  to  be  done.  He  used  to  call  in  Billy 
Fish  from  Bashkai,  and  Pikky  Kergan  from  Shu,  and 
an  old  Chief  we  called  Kafuzelum  —  it  was  like  enough 
to  his  real  name  —  and  hold  councils  with  ’em  when  there 
was  any  fighting  to  be  done  in  small  villages.  That 
was  his  Council  of  War,  and  the  four  priests  of  Bash¬ 
kai,  Shu,  Khawak,  and  Madora  was  his  Privy  Council. 
Between  the  lot  of  ’em  they  sent  me,  with  forty  men 
and  twenty  rifles,  and  sixty  men  carrying  turquoises, 
into  the  Ghorband  country  to  buy  those  hand-made 
Martini  rifles,  that  come  out  of  the  Amir’s  workshops 


222 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


at  Kabul,  from  one  of  the  Amir’s  Herati  regiments  that 
would  have  sold  the  very  teeth  out  of  their  mouths 
for  turquoises. 

6 1  stayed  in  Ghorband  a  month,  and  gave  the  Gov¬ 
ernor  there  the  pick  of  my  baskets  for  hush-money, 
and  bribed  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment  some  more, 
and,  between  the  two  and  the  tribes-people,  we  got 
more  than  a  hundred  hand-made  Martinis,  a  hundred 
good  Kohat  Jezails  that’ll  throw  to  six  hundred 
yards,  and  forty  man-loads  of  very  bad  ammunition  for 
the  rifles.  I  came  back  with  what  I  had,  and  dis¬ 
tributed  ’em  among  the  men  that  the  Chiefs  sent  in 
to  me  to  drill.  Dravot  was  too  busy  to  attend  to 
those  things,  but  the  old  Army  that  we  first  made 
helped  me,  and  we  turned  out  five  hundred  men  that 
could  drill,  and  two  hundred  that  knew  how  to  hold  arms 
pretty  straight.  Even  those  cork-screwed,  hand-made 
guns  was  a  miracle  to  them.  Dravot  talked  big  about 
powder-shops  and  factories,  walking  up  and  down  in 
the  pine  wood  when  the  winter  was  coming  on. 

4  “I  won’t  make  a  Nation,”  says  he.  “  I’ll  make  an 
Empire !  These  men  aren’t  niggers  ;  they’re  English  ! 
Look  at  their  eyes  —  look  at  their  mouths.  Look  at 
the  way  they  stand  up.  They  sit  on  chairs  in  their 
own  houses.  They’re  the  Lost  Tribes,  or  something 
like  it,  and  they’ve  grown  to  be  English-  I’ll  take  a 
census  in  the  spring  if  the  priests  don’t  get  frightened. 
There  must  be  a  fair  two  million  of  ’em  in  these  hills. 
The  villages  are  full  o’  little  children.  Two  million 
people  —  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  fighting  men  — 
and  all  English !  They  only  want  the  rifles  and  a  little 
drilling.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men,  ready 
to  cut  in  on  Russia’s  right  flank  when  she  tries  for 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  223 

India !  Peachey,  man,”  he  says,  chewing  his  heard  in 
great  hunks,  “  we  shall  be  Emperors  —  Emperors  of  the 
Earth !  Rajah  Brooke  will  be  a  suckling  to  us.  I’ll 
treat  with  the  Viceroy  on  equal  terms.  I’ll  ask  him  to 
send  me  twelve  picked  English  —  twelve  that  I  know 
0f — to  help  us  govern  a  bit.  There’s  Mackray,  Ser 
geant-pensioner  at  Segowli  —  many’s  the  good  dinner 
he’s  given  me,  and  his  wife  a  pair  of  trousers.  There’s 
Donkin,  the  AVarder  of  Tounghoo  Jail;  there  s  hun¬ 
dreds  that  I  could  lay  my  hand  on  if  I  was  in  India. 
The  Viceroy  shall  do  it  for  me,  I’ll  send  a  man  through 
in  the  spring  for  those  men,  and  I’ll  write  for  a  dispen¬ 
sation  from  the  Grand  Lodge  for  what  I’ve  done  as 
Grand-Master.  That  —  and  all  the  Sniders  that’ll  be 
thrown  out  when  the  native  troops  in  India  take  up 
the  Martini.  They’ll  be  worn  smooth,  but  they’ll  dr 
for  fighting  in  these  hills.  Twelve  English,  a  hun¬ 
dred  thousand  Sniders  run  through  the  Amir’s  country 
in  driblets — I’d  be  content  with  twenty  thousand  in 
one  year  —  and  we  d  be  an  Empire.  When  every¬ 
thing  was  shipshape,  I’d  hand  over  the  crown  —  this 
crown  I’m  wearing  now  —  to  Queen  Victoria  on  my 
knees,  and  she’d  say:  4  Rise  up,  Sir  Daniel  Dravot.’ 
Oh,  it’s  big  !  It’s  big,  I  tell  you  !  But  there’s  so 
much  to  be  done  in  every  place  —  Bashkai,  Khawak, 

Shu,  and  everywhere  else.” 

4  44  What  is  it?”  I  says.  44  There  are  no  more  men 
coming  in  to  be  drilled  this  autumn.  Look  at  those, 
fat,  black  clouds.  They’re  bringing  the  snow.” 

4  44  It  isn’t  that,”  says  Daniel,  putting  his  hand  very 
hard  on  my  shoulder  ;  44  and  I  don’t  wish  to  say  any¬ 
thing  that’s  against  you,  for  no  other  living  man  would 
have  followed  me  and  made  me  what  I  am  as  you  have 


224 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


clone.  You’re  a  first-class  Commander-in-Chief,  and 
the  people  know  you  ;  but  —  it’s  a  big  country,  and 
somehow  you  can’t  help  me,  Peachey,  in  the  way  I 
want  to  be  helped.” 

‘“Go  to  your  blasted  priests,  then!”  I  said,  and  I 
was  sorry  when  I  made  that  remark,  but  it  did  hurt 
me  sore  to  find  Daniel  talking  so  superior  when  I’d 
drilled  all  the  men,  and  done  all  he  told  me. 

‘  “  Don’t  let’s  quarrel,  Peachey,”  says  Daniel  without 
cursing.  “  You’re  a  King  too,  and  the  half  of  this 
Kingdom  is  yours  ;  but  can’t  you  see,  Peachey,  we  want 
cleverer  men  than  us  now  —  three  or  four  of  ’em,  that 
we  can  scatter  about  for  our  Deputies.  It’s  a  hugeous 
great  State,  and  I  can’t  always  tell  the  right  thing  to 
do,  and  I  haven’t  time  for  all  I  want  to  do,  and  here’s 
the  winter  coming  on  and  all.”  He  put  half  his  beard 
into  his  mouth,  all  red  like  the  gold  of  his  crown. 

‘  “  I’m  sorry,  Daniel,”  says  I.  “  I’ve  done  all  I  could. 
I’ve  drilled  the  men  and  shown  the  people  how  to 
stack  their  oats  better  ;  and  I’v6  brought  in  those  tin¬ 
ware  rifles  from  Ghorband  —  but  I  know  what  you’re 
driving  at.  I  take  it  Kings  always  feel  oppressed  that 
way.” 

‘  “  There’s  another  thing  too,”  says  Dravot,  walking 
up  and  down.  “  The  winter’s  coming  and  these  people 
won’t  be  giving  much  trouble,  and  if  they  do  we  can’t 
move  about.  I  want  a  wife.” 

‘  “  For  Gord’s  sake  leave  the  women  alone  !  ”  I  says. 
“We’ve  both  got  all  the  work  we  can,  though  I  am 
a  fool.  Remember  the  Contrack,  and  keep  clear  o’ 
women.” 

‘  “  The  Contrack  only  lasted  till  such  time  as  we  was 
Kings  ;  and  Kings  we  have  been  these  months  past,’1 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


225 


says  Dravot,  weighing  his  crown  in  his  hand.  “You 
go  get  a  wife  too,  Peachey  —  a  nice,  strapping  plump 
girl  that’ll  keep  you  warm  in  the  winter.  They're 
prettier  than  English  girls,  and  we  can  take  the  pick 
of  ’em.  Boil  ’em  once  or  twice  in  hot  water,  and 
they’ll  come  out  like  chicken  and  ham.” 

4  “Don’t  tempt  me!  ”  I  says.  44 1  will  not  have  any 
dealings  with  a  woman  not  till  we  are  a  dam’  side  more 
settled  than  Ave  are  now.  I’ve  been  doing  the  work  o’ 
two  men,  and  you’ve  been  doing  the  work  o’  three. 
Let’s  lie  off  a  bit,  and  see  if  we  can  get  some  better 
tobacco  from  Afghan  country  and  run  in  some  good 
liquor  ;  but  no  Avomen.” 

4  44  Who’s  talking  o’  women  ?  ”  says  Dravot.  44 1  said 
wife  —  a  Queen  to  breed  a  King’s  son  for  the  King.  A 
Queen  out  of  the  strongest  tribe,  that’ll  make  them 
your  blood-brothers,  and  that’ll  lie  by  your  side  and 
tell  you  all  the  people  thinks  about  you  and  their  own 
affairs.  That’s  Avhat  I  Avant.” 

4  44  Do  you  remember  that  Bengali  Avoman  I  kept  at 
Mogul  Serai  when  I  Avas  a  plate-layer  ?”  says  I.  “A 
fat  lot  o’  good  she  Avas  to  me.  She  taught  me  the  lingo 
and  one  or  tAVO  other  things  ;  but  Avhat  happened  ? 
She  ran.aAvay  Avith  the  Station  Master’s  servant  and 
half  my  month’s  pay.  Then  she  turned  up  at  Dadur 
Junction  in  tow  of  a  half-caste,  and  had  the  impidence 
to  say  I  Avas  her  husband  —  all  among  the  drivers  in 
the  running-shed  too!  ” 

4  44  We’ve  done  Avith  that,”  says  Dravot,  “these 
women  are  whiter  than  you  or  me,  and  a  Queen  I 
will  have  for  the  winter  months.” 

4  4  4  For  the  last  time  o’  asking,  Dan,  do  not,”  I  says. 
64  It’ll  only  bring  us  harm.  The  Bible  says  that  Kings 

Q 


226 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


ain’t  to  waste  their  strength  on  women,  ’specially  when 
they’ve  got  a  new  raw  Kingdom  to  work  over.” 

4  “  For  the  last  time  of  answering  I  will,”  said  Dravot, 
and  he  went  away  through  the  pine-trees  looking  like 
a  big  red  devil,  the  sun  being  on  his  crown  and  beard 
and  all. 

4  But  getting  a  wife  was  not  as  easy  as  Dan  thought. 
He  put  it  before  the  Council,  and  there  was  no  answer 
till  Billy  Fish  said  that  he’d  better  ask  the  girls.  Dra¬ 
vot  damned  them  all  round.  44  What’s  wrong  with 
me  ?  ”  he  shouts,  standing  by  the  idol  Imbra.  44  Am 
I  a  dog  or  am  I  not  enough  of  a  man  for  your  wenches  ? 
Haven’t  I  put  the  shadow  of  my  hand  over  this  coun¬ 
try  ?  Who  stopped  the  last  Afghan  raid  ?  ”  It  was 
me  really,  but  Dravot  was  too  angry  to  remember. 
44  Who  bought  your  guns  ?  Who  repaired  the  bridges  ? 
Who’s  the  Grand-Master  of  the  sign  cut  in  the  stone  ?  ” 
says  he,  and  he  thumped  his  hand  on  the  block  that 
he  used  to  sit  on  in  Lodge,  and  at  Council,  which 
opened  like  Lodge  always.  Billy  Fish  said  nothing 
and  no  more  did  the  others.  44  Keep  your  hair  on, 
Dan,”  said  I  ;  44  and  ask  the  girls.  That’s  how  it’s 
done  at  Home,  and  these  people  are  quite  English.” 

4  44  The  marriage  of  the  King  is  a  matter  of  State,” 
says  Dan,  in  a  white-hot  rage,  for  he  could  feel,  I  hope, 
that  he  was  going  against  his  better  mind.  He  walked 
out  of  the  Council-room,  and  the  others  sat  still,  look¬ 
ing  at  the  ground. 

4  44  Billy  Fish,”  says  I  to  the  Chief  of  Bashkai, 
44  what’s  the  difficulty  here  ?  A  straight  answer  to  a 
true  friend.” 

4  44  You  know,”  says  Billy  Fish.  44  How  should  a 
man  tell  you  who  knows  everything?  How  caa 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  227 

daughters  of  men  marry  Gods  or  Devils?  It’s  not 
proper.” 

4 1  remembered  something  like  that  in  the  Bible ; 
but  if,  after  seeing  us  as  long  as  they  had,  they  still 
believed  we  were  Gods,  it  wasn’t  for  me  to  undeceive 
them. 

4  44  A  God  can  do  anything,”  says  I.  44  If  the  King 
is  fond  of  a  girl  he’ll  not  let  her  die.”  — 44  She’ll  have 
to,”  said  Billy  Fish.  44  There  are  all  sorts  of  Gods  and 
Devils  in  these  mountains,  and  now  and  again  a  girl 
marries  one  of  them  and  isn’t  seen  any  more.  Besides, 
you  two  know  the  Mark  cut  in  the  stone.  Only  the 
Gods  know  that.  We  thought  you  were  men  till 
you  showed  the  sign  of  the  Master.” 

4 1  wished  then  that  we  had  explained  about  the  loss 
of  the  genuine  secrets  of  a  Master-Mason  at  the  first 
go-off;  but  I  said  nothing.  All  that  night  there  was 
a  blowing  of  horns  in  a  little  dark  temple  half-way 
down  the  hill,  and  I  heard  a  girl  crying  fit  to  die. 
One  of  the  priests  told  us  that  she  was  being  pre¬ 
pared  to  marry  the  King. 

4  44  I’ll  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind,”  says  Dan. 
44 1  don’t  want  to  interfere  with  your  customs,  but 
I’ll  take  my  own  wife.” — 44  The  girl’s  a  little  bit 
afraid,”  says  the  priest.  44  She  thinks  she’s  going  to 
die,  and  they  are  a-heartening  of  her  up  down  in  the 
temple.” 

4  44  Hearten  her  very  tender,  then,”  says  Dravot,  44  or 
I’ll  hearten  you  with  the  butt  of  a  gun  so  you’ll  never 
want  to  be  heartened  again.  ’ ’  He  licked  his  lips,  did  Dan, 
and  stayed  up  walking  about  more  than  half  the  night, 
thinking  of  the  wife  that  he  was  going  to  get  in  the 
morning.  I  wasn’t  any  means  comfortable,  for  I  knew 


228 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


that  dealings  with  a  woman  in  foreign  parts,  though 
you  was  a  crowned  King  twenty  times  over,  could  not 
but  be  risky.  I  got  up  very  early  in  the  morning  while 
Dravot  was  asleep,  and  I  saw  the  priests  talking  to¬ 
gether  in  whispers,  and  the  Chiefs  talking  together 
too,  and  they  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corners  of 
their  eyes. 

6  “What  is  up,  Fish?”  I  say  to  the  Bashkai  man, 
who  was  wrapped  up  in  his  furs  and  looking  splendid 
to  behold. 

4“I  can’t  rightly  say,”  says  he  ;  “but  if  you  can 
make  the  King  drop  all  this  nonsense  about  marriage, 
you’ll  be  doing  him  and  me  and  yourself  a  great 
service.” 

4  “  That  I  do  believe,”  says  I.  44  But  sure,  you  know, 
Billy,  as  well  as  me,  having  fought  against  and  for  us, 
that  the  King  and  me  are  nothing  more  than  two  of 
the  finest  men  that  God  Almighty  ever  made.  Nothing 
more,  I  do  assure  you.” 

4  44  That  may  be,”  says  Billy  Fish,  44  and  yet  I  should 
be  sorry  if  it  was.”  He  sinks  his  head  upon  his  great 
fur  cloak  for  a  minute  and  thinks.  44  King,”  says  he, 
44  be  you  man  or  God  or  Devil,  I’ll  stick  by  you  to-day. 
I  have  twenty  of  my  men  with  me,  and  they  will  folloAV 
me.  We’ll  go  to  Bashkai  until  the  storm  blows  over.” 

4  A  little  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  every¬ 
thing  was  white  except  the  greasy  fat  clouds  that  blew 
down  and  down  from  the  north.  Dravot  came  out 
with  his  crown  on  his  head,  swinging  his  arms  and 
stamping  his  feet,  and  looking  more  pleased  than 
Punch. 

4  44  For  the  last  time,  drop  it,  Dan.”  says  I  in  a  whis¬ 
per,  44  Billy  Fish  here  says  that  tliere  will  be  a  row.' 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


229 


“‘A  row  among  my  people!”  says  Dravot.  “Not 
much.  Peachey,  you’re  a  fool  not  to  get  a  wife  too. 
Where’s  the  girl  ?  ”  says  he  with  a  voice  as  loud  as  the 
braying  of  a  jackass.  44  Call  up  all  the  Chiefs  and 
priests,  and  let  the  Emperor  see  if  his  wife  suits  him.” 

‘  There  was  no  need  to  call  any  one.  They  were  all 
there  leaning  on  their  guns  and  spears  round  the  clear¬ 
ing  in  the  centre  of  the  pine  wood.  A  lot  of  priests 
went  down  to  the  little  temple  to  bring  up  the  girl, 
and  the  horns  blew  fit  to  wake  the  dead.  Billy  Fish 
saunters  round  and  gets  as  close  to  Daniel  as  he  could, 
and  behind  him  stood  his  twenty  men  with  matchlocks. 
Not  a  man  of  them  under  six  feet.  I  was  next  to 
Dravot,  and  behind  me  was  twenty  men  of  the  regular 
Army.  Up  comes  the  girl,  and  a  strapping  wench 
she  was,  covered  with  silver  and  turquoises  but  white 
as  death,  and  looking  back  every  minute  at  the  priests. 

4  44  She’ll  do,”  said  Dan,  looking  her  over.  44  What’s 
to  be  afraid  of,  lass?  Come  and  kiss  me.”  He  puts 
his  arm  round  her.  She  shuts  her  eyes,  gives  a  bit  of 
a  squeak,  and  down  goes  her  face  in  the  side  of  Dan’s 
flaming  red  beard. 

4  44  The  slut’s  bitten  me!  ”  says  he,  clapping  his  hand 
to  his  neck,  and,  sure  enough,  his  hand  was  red  with 
blood.  Billy  Fish  and  two  of  his  matchlock-men  catches 
hold  of  Dan  by  the  shoulders  and  drags  him  into  the 
Bashkai  lot,  while  the  priests  howls  in  their  lingo,  — 
“Neither  God  nor  Devil  but  a  man  !  ”  I  was  all  taken 
aback,  for  a  priest  cut  at  me  in  front,  and  the  Army 
behind  began  firing  into  the  Bashkai  men. 

4  44  God  A’mighty  !  ”  says  Dan.  44  What  is  the  mean¬ 
ing  o’  this  ?  ” 

4  44  Come  back  !  Come  away  !  ”  says  Billy  Fish. 


230 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


“Ruin  and  Mutiny  is  the  matter.  We’ll  break  for 
Bashkai  if  we  can.” 

‘  I  tried  to  give  some  sort  of  orders  to  my  men  — 
the  men  o’  the  regular  Army  —  but  it  was  no  use,  so  I 
fired  into  the  brown  of  ’em  with  an  English  Martini 
and  drilled  three  beggars  in  a  line.  The  valley  was 
full  of  shouting,  howling  creatures,  and  every  soul  was 
shrieking,  “Not  a  God  nor  a  Devil  but  only  a  man!  ’’ 
The  Bashkai  troops  stuck  to  Billy  Fish  all  they  were 
worth,  but  their  matchlocks  wasn’t  half  as  good  as  the 
Kabul  breech-loaders,  and  four  of  them  dropped.  Dan 
was  bellowing  like  a  bull,  for  he  was  very  wrathy;  and 
Billy  Fish  had  a  hard  job  to  prevent  him  running  out 
at  the  crowd. 

‘“We  can’t  stand,”  says  Billy  Fish.  “Make  a  run 
for  it  down  the  valley!  The  whole  place  is  against  us.” 
The  matchlock-men  ran,  and  we  went  down  the  valley 
in  spite  of  Dravot.  He  was  swearing  horrible  and 
crying  out  he  was  a  King.  The  priests  rolled  great 
stones  on  us,  and  the  regular  Army  fired  hard,  and 
there  wasn’t  more  than  six  men,  not  counting  Dan, 
Billy  Fish,  and  Me,  that  came  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  valley  alive. 

‘  Then  they  stopped  firing  and  the  horns  in  the 
temple  blew  again.  “Come  away  —  for  Gord’s  sake 
come  away!  ”  says  Billy  Fish.  “They’ll  send  runners 
out  to  all  the  villages  before  ever  we  get  to  Bash¬ 
kai.  I  can  protect  you  there,  but  I  can’t  do  anything 
now.” 

‘  My  own  notion  is  that  Dan  began  to  go  mad  in  his 
head  from  that  hour.  He  stared  up  and  down  like  a 
stuck  pig.  Then  he  was  all  for  walking  back  alone 
and  killing  the  priests  with  his  bare  hands ;  which  he 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  231 

could  have  done.  “  An  Emperor  am  I,”  says  Daniel, 
“  and  next  year  I  shall  be  a  Knight  of  the  Queen.” 

4  “  All  right,  Dan,”  says  I  j  44 but  come  along  now 
while  there’s  time.” 

44  It’s  your  fault,”  says  he,  44  for  not  looking  after 
your  Army  better-  There  was  mutiny  in  the  midst, 
and  you  didn’t  know  —  you  damned  engine-driving, 
plate-laying,  missionary’s -pass-hunting  hound!  ”  He 
sat  upon  a  rock  and  called  me  every  foul  name  he  could 
lay  tongue  to,  I  was  too  heart-sick  to  care,  though  it 
was  all  his  foolishness  that  brought  the  smash. 

4  44  I’m  sorry,  Dan,”  says  1, 44  but  there’s  no  accounting 
for  natives  This  business  is  our  Fifty-Seven.  Maybe 
we’ll  make  something  out  of  it  yet,  when  we’ve  got  to 
Bashkai..” 

4  44  Let’s  get  to  Bashkai,  then,”  says  Dan,  44  and,  by 
God,  when  I  come  back  here  again  I’ll  sweep  the  valley 
so  there  isn’t  a  bug  in  a  blanket  left!  ” 

4  We  walked  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night  Dan  was 
stumping  up  and  down  on  the  snow,  chewing  his  beard 
and  muttering  to  himself. 

4  44  There’s  no  hope  o’  getting  clear,”  said  Billy  Fish. 
44  The  priests  will  have  sent  runners  to  the  villages  to 
say  that  you  are  only  men.  Why  didn’t  you  stick  on 
as  Gods  till  things  was  more  settled?  I’m  a  dead 
man,”  says  Billy  Fish,  and  he  throws  himself  down  on 
the  snow  and  begins  to  pray  to  his  Gods. 

‘Next  morning  we  was  in  a  cruel  bad  country  —  all 
up  and  down,  no  level  ground  at  all,  and  no  food  either. 
The  six  Bashkai  men  looked  at  Billy  Fish  hungry- 
way  as  if  they  wanted  to  ask  something,  but  they  said 
never  a  word.  At  noon  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  flat 
mountain  all  covered  with  snow,  and  when  we  climbed 


232 


UJNJJJiiK  TilJi  UJ^U-UAKS 


up  into  it,  behold,  there  was  an  Army  in  position  wait¬ 
ing  in  the  middle ! 

‘“The  runners  have  been  very  quick,’5  says  Billy 
Fish,  with  a  little  bit  of  a  laugh.  “  They  are  waiting 
for  us.” 

‘Three  or  four  men  began  to  fire  from  the  enemy’s 
side,  and  a  chance  shot  took  Daniel  in  the  calf  of  the 
leg.  That  brought  him  to  his  senses.  He  looks  acrosr 
the  snow  at  the  Army,  and  sees  the  rifles  that  we  had 
brought  into  the  country. 

‘“We’re  done  for,”  says  he.  “They  are  English¬ 
men,  these  people,  —  and  it’s  my  blasted  nonsense  that 
has  brought  you  to  this.  Get  back,  Billy  Fish,  and, 
take  your  men  away;  you’ve  done  what  you  could,  and 
now  cut  for  it.  Carnehan,”  says  he,  “  shake  hands 
with  me  and  go  along  with  Billy.  Maybe  they  won’t 
kill  you.  I’ll  go  and  meet  ’em  alone.  It’s  me  that 
did  it.  Me,  the  King  !  ” 

“‘  Go  !  ”  says  I.  “  Go  to  Hell,  Dan.  I’m  with  you 
here.  Billy  Fish,  you  clear  out,  and  we  two  will  meet 
those  folk.” 

“‘I’m  a  Chief,”  says  Billy  Fish,  quite  quiet.  “I 
stay  with  you.  My  men  can  go.” 

‘The  Bashkai  fellows  didn’t  wait  for  a  second  word 
but  ran  off,  and  Dan  and  Me  and  Billy  Fish  walked 
across  to  where  the  drums  were  drumming  and  the 
horns  were  horning.  It  was  cold  —  awful  cold.  I’ve 
got  that  cold  in  the  back  of  my  head  now.  There’s  a 
lump  of  it  there.’ 

The  punkah-coolies  had  gone  to  sleep.  Two  kero¬ 
sene  lamps  were  blazing  in  the  office,  and  the  perspira¬ 
tion  poured  down  my  face  and  splashed  on  the  blotter 
as  I  leaned  forward.  Carnehan  was  shivering,  and  I 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING  233 

feared  that  his  mind  might  go.  I  wiped  my  face,  took 
a  fresh  grip  of  the  piteously  mangled  hands,  and  said  : 

‘  What  happened  after  that  ?  ’ 

The  momentary  shift  of  my  eyes  had  broken  the 
clear  current. 

‘What  was  you  pleased  to  say?’  whined  Carnehan. 

‘  They  took  them  without  any  sound.  Not  a  little  whis¬ 
per  all  along  the  snow,  not  though  the  King  knocked 
down  the  first  man  that  set  hand  on  him  — not  though  old 
Peachey  fired  his  last  cartridge  into  the  brown  of  ’em. 
Not  a  single  solitary  sound  did  those  swines  make.  They 
just  closed  up  tight,  and  I  tell  you  their  furs  stunk. 
There  was  a  man  called  Billy  Fish,  a  good  friend  of  us 
all,  and  they  cut  his  throat,  Sir,  then  and  there,  like 
a  pig  ;  and  the  King  kicks  up  the  bloody  snow  and 
says;  “We’ve  had  a  dashed  fine  run  for  our  money. 
What’s  coming  next  ?  ”  But  Peachey,  Peachey  Talia¬ 
ferro,  I  tell  you,  Sir,  in  confidence  as  betwixt  two 
friends,  he  lost  his  head,  Sir.  No,  he  didn’t  neither. 
The  King  lost  his  head,  so  he  did,  all  along  o’  one  of 
those  cunning  rope-bridges.  Kindly  let  me  have  the 
paper-cutter,  Sir.  It  tilted  this  way.  They  marched 
him  a  mile  across  that  snow'  to  a  rope -bridge  over  a 
ravine  with  a  river  at  the  bottom.  You  may  have  seen 
such.  They  prodded  him  behind  like  an  ox.  “  Damn 
your  eyes  !  ”  says  the  King.  “  D’you  suppose  I  can’t 
die  like  a  gentleman?”  He  turns  to  Peachey  — 
Peachey  that  was  crying  like  a  child.  “  I’ve  brought 
you  to  this,  Peachey,”  says  he.  “Brought  you 
out  of  your  happy  life  to  be  killed  in  Kafiristan, 
where  you  was  late  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Em¬ 
peror’s  forces.  Say  you  forgive  me,  Peachey.”  —  “I 
do.”  says  Peachey.  “Fully  and  freely  do  I  forgive 


234 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


you,  Dan.”  —  “  Shake  hands,  Peachey,”  says  he.  “  I’m 
going  now.”  Out  he  goes,  looking  neither  right  nor 
left,  and  when  he  was  plumb  in  the  middle  of  those 
dizzy  dancing  ropes,  —  “  Cut,  you  beggars,”  he  shouts  , 
and  they  cut,  and  old  Dan  fell,  turning  round  and  round 
and  round,  twenty  thousand  miles,  for  he  took,  half  an 
hour  to  fall  till  he  struck  the  water,  and  I  could  see  his 
body  caught  on  a  rock  with  the  gold  crown  close  beside. 

‘  But  do  you  know  what  they  did  to  Peachey  between 
two  pine-trees?  They  crucified  him,  Sir,  as  Peachey’s 
hand  will  show.  They  used  wooden  pegs  for  his 
hands  and  his  feet  ;  and  he  didn’t  die.  He  hung 
there  and  screamed,  and  they  took  him  down  next 
day,  and  said  it  was  a  miracle  that  he  wasn’t  dead. 
They  took  him  down  —  poor  old  Peachey  that  hadn’t 
done  them  any  harm  —  that  hadn’t  done  them  any - ’ 

He  rocked  to  and  fro  and  wept  bitterly,  wiping  his 
eyes  with  the  back  of  his  scarred  hands  and  moaning 
like  a  child  for  some  ten  minutes. 

4  They  was  cruel  enough  to  feed  him  up  in  the 
temple,  because  they  said  he  was  more  of  a  God  than 
old  Daniel  that  was  a  man.  Then  they  turned  him  out 
on  the  snow,  and  told  him  to  go  home,  and  Peachey 
came  home  in  about  a  year,  begging  along  the  roads 
quite  safe  ;  for  Daniel  Dravot  he  walked  before  and 
said  :  “  Come  along,  Peachey.  It’s  a  big  thing  we’re 
doing.”  The  mountains  they  danced  at  night,  and 
the  mountains  they  tried  to  fall  on  Peachey’s  head, 
but  Dan  he  held  up  his  hand,  and  Peachey  came  along 
bent  double.  He  never  let  go  of  Dan’s  hand,  and  he 
never  let  go  of  Dan’s  head.  They  gave  it  to  him  as  a 
present  in  the  temple,  to  remind  him  not  to  come  again, 
and  though  the  crown  was  pure  gold,  and  Peachey  was 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


235 


starving,  never  would  Peachey  sell  the  same.  You 
knew  Dravot,  Sir!  You  knew  Right  Worshipful 
Brother  Dravot!  Look  at  him  now!’ 

He  fumbled  in  the  mass  of  rags  round  his  bent 
waist ;  brought  out  a  black  horsehair  bag  embroidered 
with  silver  thread ;  and  shook  therefrom  on  to  my 
table  the  dried,  withered  head  of  Daniel  Dravot ! 
The  morning  sun  that  had  long  been  paling  the 
lamps  struck  the  red  beard  and  ■  blind  sunken  eyes  ; 
struck,  too,  a  heavy  circlet  of  gold  studded  with  raw  tur¬ 
quoises,  that  Carnehan  placed  tenderly  on  the  battered 
temples. 

‘You  be’old  now,’ said  Carnehan,  ‘the  Emperor  in 
his  ’abit  as  he  lived  —  the  King  of  Kafiristan  with 
his  crown  upon  his  head.  Poor  old  Daniel  that  was 
a  monarch  once  !  ’ 

I  shuddered,  for,  in  spite  of  defacements  manifold, 
I  recognised  the  head  of  the  man  of  Mar  war  Junction. 
Carnehan  rose  to  go.  I  attempted  to  stop  him.  He 
was  not  fit  to  walk  abroad.  ‘  Let  me  take  away  the 
whiskey,  and  give  me  a  little  money,’  he  gasped.  ‘  I 
was  a  King  once.  I’ll  go  to  the  Deputy  Commis¬ 
sioner  and  ask  to  set  in  the  P oorhouse  till  I  get  my 
health.  No,  thank  you,  I  can’t  wait  till  you  get  a 
carriage  for  me.  I’ve  urgent  private  affairs  —  in  the 
south  —  at  Marwar.’ 

He  shambled  out  of  the  office  and  departed  in  the 
direction  of  the  Deputy  Commissioner’s  house.  That 
day  at  noon  I  had  occasion  to  go  down  the  blinding 
hot  Mall,  and  I  saw  a  crooked  man  crawling  along  the 
white  dust  of  the  roadside,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  quaver¬ 
ing  dolorously  after  the  fashion  of  street-singers  at 
Home.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and  he  was 


236 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

out  of  all  possible  earshot  of  the  houses.  And  he 
sang  through  his  nose,  turning  his  head  from  right  to 

left :  — 

‘  The  Son  of  Man  goes  forth  to  war, 

A  golden  crown  to  gain ; 

His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar  — 

Who  follows  in  his  train?  * 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  put  the  poor  wretch 
into  my  carriage  and  drov  him  off  to  the  nearest  mis¬ 
sionary  for  eventual  transfer  to  the  Asylum.  e  le 
peated  the  hymn  twice  while  he  was  with  me  whom  he 
did  not  in  the  least  recognise,  and  I  left  him  singing  it 
to  the  missionary. 

Two  days  later  I  enquired  after  his  welfare  of  the 

Superintendent  of  the  Asylum. 

‘He  was  admitted  suffering  from  sun-stroke.  He 
died  early  yesterday  morning,’  said  the  Superintend¬ 
ent.  ‘Is  it  true  that  he  was  half  an  hour  bare¬ 
headed  in  the  sun  at  midday  ?  ’ 

‘Yes,’  said  I,  ‘but  do  you  happen  to  know  it  he 
had  anything  upon  him  by  any  chance  when  lie  died . 
‘Not  to  my  knowledge,’  said  the  Superintendent. 
And  there  the  matter  rests. 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 

‘  An  officer  and  a  gentleman.’ 


His  full  name  was  Percival  William  Williams,  but 
he  picked  up  the  other  name  in  a  nursery-book,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  the  christened  titles.  His  mother’s 
ayali  called  him  Willie-j9a6a,  but  as  he  never  paid  the 
faintest  attention  to  anything  that  the  ayah  said,  her 
wisdom  did  not  help  matters. 

His  father  was  the  Colonel  of  the  195th,  and  as  soon 
as  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  old  enough  to  understand 
what  Military  Discipline  meant,  Colonel  Williams  put 
him  under  it.  There  was  no  other  way  of  managing 
the  child.  When  he  was  good  for  a  week,  he  drew 
good-conduct  pay;  and  when  he  was  bad,  he  was  de¬ 
prived  of  his  good-conduct  stripe.  Generally  he  was 
bad,  for  India  offers  many  chances  of  going  wrong  to 
little  six-year-olds. 

Children  resent  familiarity  from  strangers,  and  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  was  a  very  particular  child.  Once  he 
accepted  an  acquaintance,  he  was  graciously  pleased  to 
thaw.  He  accepted  Brandis,  a  subaltern  of  the  195th, 
on  sight.  Brandis  was  having  tea  at  the  Colonel’s, 
and  Wee  Willie  Winkie  entered  strong  in  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  a  good-conduct  badge  won  for  not  chasing  the 
hens  round  the  compound.  He  regarded  Brandis  with 
gravity  for  at  least  ten  minutes,  and  then  delivered 
himself  of  his  opinion. 


237 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


$38 

‘I  like  you/  said  he  slowly,  getting  off  his  ©hair  and 
coming  over  to  Brandis.  4 1  like  you.  I  shall  call  you 
Coppy,  because  of  your  hair.  Do  you  mind  being  called 
Coppy  ?  It  is  because  of  ye  hair,  you  know.’ 

Here  was  one  of  the  most  embarrassing  of  Wee  Willie 
Winkie’s  peculiarities.  He  would  look  at  a  stranger 
for  some  time,  and  then,  without  warning  or  explana¬ 
tion,  would  give  him  a  name.  And  the  name  stuck. 

No  regimental  penalties  could  break  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
of  this  habit.  He  lost  his  good-conduct  badge  for 
christening  the  Commissioner’s  wife  4Pobs’;  but  noth¬ 
ing  that  the  Colonel  could  do  made  the  Station  forego  jj 
the  nickname,  and  Mrs.  Collen  remained  4  Pobs  ’  till  the 
end  of  her  stay.  So  Brandis  was  christened  4  Coppy, 
and  rose,  therefore,  in  the  estimation  of  the  regiment. 

If  Wee  Willie  Winkie  took  an  interest  in  any  one, 
the  fortunate  man  was  envied  alike  by  the  mess  and 
the  rank  and  file.  And  in  their  envy  lay  no  suspicion 
of  self-interest.  4  The  Colonel’s  son  5  was  idolised  on 
his  own  merits  entirely.  Yet  Wee  JYillie  Winkie  was 
not  lovely.  His  face  was  permanently  freckled,  as  his 
legs  were  permanently  scratched,  and  in  spite  of  his 
mother’s  almost  tearful  remonstrances  he  had  insisted 
upon  having  his  long  yellow  locks  cut  short  in  the 
military  fashion.  4 1  want  my  hair  like  Sergeant  Turn- 
mil’s, '  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and,  his  father  abet¬ 
ting,  the  sacrifice  was  accomplished. 

Three  weeks  after  the  bestowal  of  his  youthful  af¬ 
fections  on  Lieutenant  Brandis  —  henceforward  to  be 
called  4  Coppy’  for  the  sake  of  brevity — Wee  Willie 
Winkie  was  destined  to  behold  strange  things  and  far 
beyond  his  comprehension. 

Coppy  returned  his  liking  with  interest.  Coppy  had 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


239 


let  him  wear  for  five  rapturous  minutes  his  own  big 
sword— just  as  tall  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  Coppy 
had  promised  him  a  terrier  puppy,  and  Coppy  had 
permitted  him  to  witness  the  miraculous  operation  of 
shaving.  Nay,  more  — Coppy  had  said  that  even  he, 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  would  rise  in  time  to  the  owner¬ 
ship  of  a  box  of  shiny  knives,  a  silver  soap-box  and  a 
silver-handled  ‘sputter-brush,’  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
called  it.  Decidedly,  there  was  no  one  except  his 
father,  who  could  give  or  take  away  good-conduct 
badges  at  pleasure,  half  so  wise,  strong,  and  valiant 
as  Coppy  with  the  Afghan  and  Egyptian  medals  on 
his  breast.  Why,  then,  should  Coppy  be  guilty  of  the 
unmanly  weakness  of  kissing  —  vehemently  kissing  — 
a  .  big  girl,’  Miss  Allardyce  to  wit  ?  In  the  course  of 
a  morning  ride,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  seen  Coppy  so 
doing,  and,  like  the  gentleman  lie  was,  had  promptly 
wheeled  round  and  cantered  back  to  his  groom,  lest  the 
groom  should  also  see. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  have  spoken 
to  his  father,  but  he  felt  instinctively  that  this  was  a 
matter  on  which  Coppy  ought  first  to  be  consulted. 

‘Coppy,’  shouted  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  reining  up 
outside  that  subaltern  s  bungalow  early  one  morning 
—  ‘  I  want  to  see  you,  Coppy!  ’ 

‘Come  in,  young  ’un,’  returned  Coppy,  who  was  at 
early  breakfast  in  the  midst  of  his  dogs.  ‘  What  mis¬ 
chief  have  you  been  getting  into  iioav  ?  ’ 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  done  nothing  notoriously 
bad  for  three  days,  and  so  stood  on  a  pinnacle  of 
virtue. 

‘I've  been  doing  nothing  bad,’  said  he,  curling  him¬ 
self  into  a  long  chair  with  a  studious  affectation  of  the 


240 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Colonel’s  languor  after  a  hot  parade.  He  buried  his 
freckled  nose  in  a  tea-cup  and,  with  eyes  staring 
roundly  over  the  rim,  asked:  4 1  say,  Coppy,  is  it 
pwoper  to  kiss  big  girls?’ 

‘By  Jove!  You’re  beginning  early.  Who  do  you 

want  to  kiss  ?  ’ 

‘No  one.  My  muvver’s  always  kissing  me  if  I  don’t 
stop  her.  If  it  isn’t  pwoper,  how  was  you  kissing 
Major  Allardyce’s  big  girl  last  morning,  by  ye  canal?  ’ 

Coppy ’s  brow  wrinkled.  He  and  Miss  Allardyce  had 
with  great  craft  managed  to  keep  their  engagement 
secret  for  a  fortnight.  There  were  urgent  and  impera¬ 
tive  reasons  why  Major  Allardyce  should  not  know 
how  matters  stood  for  at  least  another  month,  and  this 
small  marplot  had  discovered  a  great  deal  too  much. 

‘I  saw  you,’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  calmly.  ‘But 
ve  sais  didn’t  see.  I  said,  “  Hut  j ao  !  ”  ’ 

‘Oh,  you  had  that  much  sense,  you  young  Rip,’ 
groaned  poor  Coppy,  half  amused  and  half  angry. 

‘  And  how  many  people  may  you  have  told  about  it  ?  ’ 

‘  Only  me  myself.  You  didn’t  tell  when  I  twied  to 
wide  ve  buffalo  veil  my  pony  was  lame  ;  and  I  fought 
you  wouldn’t  like.’ 

‘Winkie,’  said  Coppy  enthusiastically,  shaking  the 
small  hand,  ‘  you’re  the  best  of  good  fellows.  Look 
here,  you  can’t  understand  all  these  things.  One  of 
these  days- — hang  it,  how  can  I  make  you  see  it!  — 
I’m  going  to  marry  Miss  Allardyce,  and  then  she’ll  be 
Mrs.  Coppy,  as  you  say.  If  your  young  mind  is  so 
scandalised  at  the  idea  of  kissing  big  girls,  go  and  tell 
your  father.’ 

‘What  will  happen?’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
who  firmly  believed  that  his  father  was  omnipotent^ 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


241 


‘  I  shall  get  into  trouble,’  said  Coppy,  playing  his 
trump  card  with  an  appealing  look  at  the  holder  of 
the  ace. 

4Ven  I  won’t,’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  briefly. 

4  But  my  faver  says  it’s  un-man-ly  to  be  always  kiss¬ 
ing,  and  I  didn’t  fink  you’d  do  vat,  Coppy.’ 

4  I’m  not  always  kissing,  old  chap.  It’s  only  now 
and  then,  and  when  you’re  bigger  you’ll  do  it  too. 
Your  father  meant  it’s  not  good  for  little  boys.’ 

4 Ah!  ’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  now  fully  enlight¬ 
ened.  4  It’s  like  ye  sputter  brush  ?  ’ 

4  Exactly,’  said  Coppy  gravely. 

4  But  I  don’t  fink  I’ll  ever  want  to  kiss  big  girls,  nor 
no  one,  ’cept  my  muvver.  And  I  must  vat,  you  know.’ 

There  was  a  long  pause,  broken  by  Wee  Willie 
Winkie. 

4  Are  you  fond  of  vis  big  girl,  Coppy  ?  ’ 

4  Awfully  !  ’  said  Coppy. 

4  Fonder  van  you  are  of  Bell  or  ve  Butcha  —  or 
me?  ’ 

4  It’s  in  a  different  way,’  said  Coppy.  4  You  see,  one 
of  these  days  Miss  Allardyce  will  belong  to  me,  but 
you’ll  grow  up  and  command  the  Regiment  and  —  all 
sorts  of  things.  It’s  quite  different,  you  see.’ 

4  Very  well,’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  rising.  4  If 
you’re  fond  of  ve  big  girl,  I  won’t  tell  any  one.  I 
must  go  now.’ 

Coppy  rose  and  escorted  his  small  guest  to  the  door, 
adding  —  4  You’re  the  best  of  little  fellows,  Winkie.  I 
tell  you  what.  In  thirty  days  from  now  you  can  tell 
if  you  like  —  tell  any  one  you  like.’ 

Thus  the  secret  of  the  Brandis-Allardyce  engagement 
was  dependent  on  a  little  child’s  word.  Coppy,  who 


242 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


knew  Wee  Willie  Winkie’s  idea  of  truth,  was  at  ease, 
for  he  felt  that  he  would  not  break  promises.  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  betrayed  a  special  and  unusual  interest 
in  Miss  Allardyce,  and,  slowly  revolving  round  that 
embarrassed  young  lady,  was  used  to  regard  her 
gravely  with  unwinking  eye.  He  was  trying  to  dis¬ 
cover  why  Coppy  should  have  kissed  her.  She  was 
not  half  so  nice  as  his  own  mother.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  was  Coppy’s  property,  and  would  in  time 
belong  to  him.  Therefore  it  behooved  him  to  treat  her 
with  as  much  respect  as  Coppy’s  big  sword  or  shiny 
pistol. 

The  idea  that  he  shared  a  great  secret  in  common 
with  Coppy  kept  Wee  Willie  Winkie  unusually  virt¬ 
uous  for  three  weeks.  Then  the  Old  Adam  broke  out, 
and  he  made  what  he  called  a  4  camp-fire  ’  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden.  How  could  he  have  foreseen  that  the 
flying  sparks  would  have  lighted  the  Colonel’s  little 
hay-rick  and  consumed  a  week’s  store  for  the  horses  ? 
Sudden  and  swift  was  the  punishment  —  deprivation 
of  the  good-conduct  badge  and,  most  sorrowful  of  all, 
two  days’  confinement  to  barracks  —  the  house  and 
veranda  —  coupled  with  the  withdrawal  of  the  light  of 
his  father’s  countenance. 

He  took  the  sentence  like  the  man  he  strove  to  be, 
drew  himself  up  with  a  quivering  under-lip,  saluted, 
and,  once  clear  of  the  room,  ran  to  weep  bitterly  in 
his  nursery  —  called  by  him  4  my  quarters.’  Coppy 
came  in  the  afternoon  and  attempted  to  console  the 
culprit. 

4  I’m  under  awwest,’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  mourn¬ 
fully,  4  and  I  didn’t  ought  to  speak  to  you. 

Very  early  the  next  morning  he  climbed  on  to  the 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


243 

/oof  of  the  house  —  that  was  not  forbidden  —  and 
beheld  Miss  Allardyce  going  for  a  ride. 

4  Where  are  you  going  ?  ’  cried  Wee  Willie  Winkie. 

‘Across  the  river,’  she  answered,  and  trotted  for¬ 
ward. 

Now  the  cantonment  in  which  the  195th  lay  was 
bounded  on  the  north  by  a  river  —  dry  in  the  winter. 
From  his  earliest  years,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  been 
forbidden  to  go  across  the  river,  and  had  noted  that 
even  Coppy  —  the  almost  almighty  Coppy  —  had  never 
set  foot  beyond  it.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  once  been 
read  to,  out  of  a  big  blue  book,  the  history  of  the 
Princess  and  the  Goblins  —  a  most  wonderful  tale  of 
a  land  where  the  Goblins  were  always  warring  with 
the  children  of  men  until  they  were  defeated  by  one 
Curdie.  Ever  since  that  date  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  bare  black  and  purple  hills  across  the  river  were 
inhabited  by  Goblins,  and,  in  truth,  every  one  had 
said  that  there  lived  the  Bad  Men.  Even  in  his  own 
house  the  lower  halves  of  the  windows  were  covered 
with  green  paper  on  account  of  the  Bad  Men  who 
might,  if  allowed  clear  view,  fire  into  peaceful  drawing¬ 
rooms  and  comfortable  bedrooms.  Certainly,  beyond 
the  river,  which  was  the  end  of  all  the  Earth,  lived  the 
Bad  Men.  And  here  was  Major  Allardyce’s  big  girl, 
Coppy ’s  property,  preparing  to  venture  into  their  bor¬ 
ders  !  What  would  Coppy  say  if  anything  happened 
to  her?  If  the  Goblins  ran  off  with  her  as  they  did 
with  Curdie’s  Princess  ?  She  must  at  all  hazards  be 
turned  back. 

The  house  was  still.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  reflected 
for  a  moment  on  the  very  terrible  wrath  of  his  father ; 
and  then  —  broke  his  arrest !  It  was  a  crime  unspeak- 


244 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


able.  The  low  sun  threw  his  shadow,  very  large  and 
very  black,  on  the  trim  garden-paths,  as  he  went  down 
to  the  stables  and  ordered  his  pony.  It  seemed  to  him 
in  the  hush  of  the  dawn  that  all  the  big  world  had  been 
bidden  to  stand  still  and  look  at  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
guilty  of  mutiny.  The  drowsy  sais  gave  him  his 
mount,  and,  since  the  one  great  sin  made  all  others 
insignificant,  Wbe  Willie  Winkie  said  that  he  was 
going  to  ride  over  to  Coppy  Sahib,  and  went  out  at 
a  foot-pace,  stepping  on  the  soft  mould  of  the  flower- 
borders. 

The  devastating  track  of  the  pony’s  feet  was  the  last 
misdeed  that  cut  him  off  from  all  sympathy  of  Human¬ 
ity.  He  turned  into  the  road,  leaned  forward,  and 
rode  as  fast  as  the  pony  could  put  foot  to  the  ground 
in  the  direction  of  the  river. 

But  the  liveliest  of  twelve-two  ponies  can  do  little 
against  the  long  canter  of  a  Waler.  Miss  Allardyce 
was  far  ahead,  had  passed  through  the  crops,  beyond 
the  Police-posts,  when  all  the  guards  were  asleep,  and 
her  mount  was  scattering  the  pebbles  of  the  river-bed 
as  Wee  Willie  Winkie  left  the  cantonment  and  British 
India  behind  him.  Bowed  forward  and  still  flogging, 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  shot  into  Afghan  territory,  and 
could  just  see  Miss  Allardyce  a  black  speck,  flickering 
across  the  stony  plain.  The  reason  of  her  wandering 
was  simple  enough.  Coppy,  in  a  tone  of  too-hastily- 
assumed  authority,  had  told  her  over  night  that  she 
must  not  ride  out  by  the  river.  And  she  had  gone  to 
prove  her  own  spirit  and  teach  Coppy  a  lesson. 

Almost  at  the  foot  of  the  inhospitable  hills,  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  saw  the  Waler  blunder  and  come  down 
heavily.  Miss  Allardyce  struggled  clear,  but  her  ankle 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


245 


had  been  severely  twisted,  and  she  could  not  stand. 
Having  fully  shown  her  spirit,  she  wept,  and  was  sur¬ 
prised  by  the  apparition  of  a  white,  wide-eyed  child 
in  khaki,  on  a  nearly  spent  pony. 

‘Are  you  badly,  badly  hurted?’  shouted  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  as  soon  as  he  was  within  range.  ‘  You  didn’t 
ought  to  be  here.’ 

‘  I  don’t  know,’  said  Miss  Allardyce  ruefully,  ignor¬ 
ing  the  reproof.  ‘  Good  gracious,  child,  what  are  you 
doing  here  ?  ’ 

‘You  said  you  was  going  acwoss  ve  wiver,’  panted 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  throwing  himself  off  his  pony. 

‘  And  nobody  —  not  even  Coppy  —  must  gg>  acwoss  ve 
wiver,  and  I  came  after  you  ever  so  hard,  but  you 
wouldn’t  stop,  and  now  you’ve  hurted  yourself,  and 
Coppy  will  be  angwy  wiv  me,  and  —  I’ve  bwoken  my 
awwest !  I’ve  bwoken  my  awwest !  ’ 

The  future  Colonel  of  the  195th  sat  down  and 
sobbed.  In  spite  of  the  pain  in  her  ankle  the  girl  was 
moved. 

‘Have  you  ridden  all  the  way  from  cantonments, 
little  man  ?  What  for  ?  ’ 

‘You  belonged  to  Coppy.  Coppy  told  me  so!’ 
wailed  Wee  Willie  Winkie  disconsolately.  ‘  I  saw  him 
kissing  you,  and  he  said  he  was  fonder  of  you  van  Bell 
or  ve  Butcha  or  me.  And  so  I  came.  You  must  get 
up  and  come  back.  You  didn’t  ought  to  be  here.  Yis 
is  a  bad  place,  and  I’ve  bwoken  my  awwest.’ 

‘I  can’t  move,  Winkie,’  said  Miss  Allardyce,  with  a 
groan.  ‘I’ve  hurt  my  foot.  What  shall  I  do  ?  ’ 

She  showed  a  readiness  to  weep  anew,  which  steadied 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  who  had  been  brought  up  to  be¬ 
lieve  that  tears  were  the  depth  of  unmanliness.  Still, 


246 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


when  one  is  as  great  a  sinner  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
even  a  man  may  be  permitted  to  break  down. 

4  Winkie,’  said  Miss  Allardyce,  ‘when  you’ve  rested 
a  little,  ride  back  and  tell  them  to  send  out  something 
to  carry  me  back  in.  It  hurts  fearfully.’ 

The  child  sat  still  for  a  little  time  and  Miss  Allardyce 
closed  her  eyes;  the  pain  was  nearly  making  her  faint. 
She  was  roused  by  Wee  Willie  Winkie  tying  up  the 
reins  on  his  pony’s  neck  and  setting  it  free  with  a 
vicious  cut  of  his  whip  that  made  it  whicker.  The 
little  animal  headed  towards  the  cantonments. 

4  Oh,  Winkie!  What  are  you  doing  ?  ’ 

‘Hush!’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  ‘Yere’s  a  man 
coming  —  one  of  ve  Bad  Men.  I  must  stay  wiv  you. 
My  faver  says  a  man  must  always  look  after  a  girl. 
Jack  will  go  home,  and  ven  vey’ll  come  and  look  for 
us.  Vat’s  why  I  let  him  go.’ 

Not  one  man  but  two  or  three  had  appeared  from 
behind  the  rocks  of  the  hills,  and  the  heart  of  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  sank  within  him,  for  just  in  this  manner 
were  the  Goblins  wont  to  steal  out  and  vex  Curdie’s 
soul.  Thus  had  they  played  in  Curdie’s  garden,  he 
had  seen  the  picture,  and  thus  had  they  frightened 
the  Princess’s  nurse.  He  heard  them  talking  to  each 
other,  and  recognised  with  joy  the  bastard  Pushto 
.that  he  had  picked  up  from  one  of  his  father’s 
grooms  lately  dismissed  People  who  spoke  that 
tongue  could  not  be  the  Bad  Men.  They  were  only 
natives  after  all. 

They  came  up  to  the  bowlders  on  which  Miss  Anar¬ 
s'  fee’s  horse  had  blundered. 

Then  rose  from  the  rock  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  child 
of  the  Dominant  Race,  aged  six  and  three-quarters,  and 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


24? 


said  briefly  and  emphatically  4 Jao /’  The  pony  had 
crossed  the  river-bed. 

The  men  laughed,  and  laughter  from  natives  was  the 
one  thing  Wee  Willie  Winkie  could  not  tolerate.  He 
asked  them  what  they  wanted  and  why  they  did  not 
depart,  Other  men  with  most  evil  faces  and  crooked- 
stocked  guns  crept  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  hills, 
till,  soon,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  face  to  face  with 
an  audience  some  twenty  strong.  Miss  Allardyce 
screamed. 

4  Who  are  you  ?  ’  said  one  of  the  men. 

4 1  am  the  Colonel  Sahib’s  son,  and  my  order  is  that 
you  go  at  once.  You  black  men  are  frightening  the 
Miss  Sahib.  One  of  you  must  run  into  cantonments 
and  take  the  news  that  the  Miss  Sahib  has  hurt  herself, 
and  that  the  Colonel’s  son  is  here  with  her.’ 

4  Put  our  feet  into  the  trap  ?  ’  was  the  laughing  reply. 
4  Hear  this  boy’s  speech !  ’ 

4  Say  that  I  sent  you  —  I,  the  Colonel’s  son.  They 
will  give  you  money.’ 

4  What  is  the  use  of  this  talk?  Take  up  the  child 
and  the  girl,  and  we  can  at  least  ask  for  the  ransom. 
Ours  are  the  villages  on  the  heights,’  said  a  voice  in 
the  background. 

These  were  the  Bad  Men— -worse  than  Goblins  —  and 
it  needed  all  Wee  Willie  Winkie’s  training  to  prevent 
him  from  bursting  into  tears.  But  he  felt  that  to  cry 
before  a  native,  excepting  only  his  mother’s  ayah ,  would 
be  an  infamy  greater  than  any  mutiny.  Moreover,  he, 
as  future  Colonel  of  the  195th,  had  that  grim  regiment 
at  his  back. 

4  Are  you  going  to  carry  us  away?’  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  very  blanched  and  uncomfortable. 


248 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4  Yes,  my  little  Sahib  Bahadur ,’  said  the  tallest  of  the 
men,  ‘  and  eat  you  afterwards.’ 

‘That  is  child’s  talk,’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie. 
‘Men  do  not  eat  men.’ 

A  yell  of  laughter  interrupted  him,  but  he  went  on 
firmly  —  ‘  And  if  you  do  carry  us  away,  I  tell  you  that 
all  my  regiment  will  come  up  in  a  day  and  kill  you  all 
without  leaving  one.  Who  will  take  my  message  to 
the  Colonel  Sahib  ?  ’ 

Speech  in  any  vernacular  —  and  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
had  a  colloquial  acquaintance  with  three  —  was  easy  to 
the  boy  who  could  not  yet  manage  his  ‘  r’s  ’  and  ‘  th’s  * 
aright. 

Another  man  joined  the  conference,  crying  :  ‘  O  fool¬ 
ish  men !  What  this  babe  says  is  true-  He  is  the 
heart’s  heart  of  those  white  troops.  For  the  sake  of 
peace  let  them  go  both,  for  if  he  be  taken,  the  regiment 
will  break  loose  and  gut  the  valley.  Our  villages  are 
in  the  valley,  and  we  shall  not  escape.  That  regiment 
are  devils.  They  broke  Khoda  Yar’s  breastbone  with 
kicks  when  he  tried  to  take  the  rifles ;  and  if  we  touch 
this  child  they  will  fire  and  rape  and  plunder  for  a 
month,  till  nothing  remains.  Better  to  send  a  man 
back  to  take  the  message  and  get  a  reward-  I  say  that 
this  child  is  their  God,  and  that  they  will  spare  none  of 
us,  nor  our  women,  if  we  harm  him.  ’ 

It  was  Din  Mahommed,  the  dismissed  groom  of  the 
Colonel,  who  made  the  diversion,  and  an  angry  and 
heated  discussion  followed.  W ee  W illie  W inkie,  stand¬ 
ing  over  Miss  Allardyce,  waited  the  upshot.  Surely 
his  ‘wegiment,’  his  own  ‘wegiment,’  would  not  desert 
him  if  they  knew  of  his  extremity. 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 


249 

The  riderless  pony  brought  the  news  to  the  195th, 
though  there  had  been  consternation  in  the  Colonel’s 
household  for  an  hour  before.  The  little  beast  came  in 
through  the  parade-ground  in  front  of  the  main  bar¬ 
racks,  where  the  men  were  settling  down  to  play  Spoil- 
five  till  the  afternoon.  Devlin,  the  Colour-Sergeant  of 
E  Company,  glanced  at  the  empty  saddle  and  tumbled 
through  the  barrack-rooms,  kicking  up  each  Room 
Corporal  as  he  passed.  4  Up,  ye  beggars !  There’s 
something  happened  to  the  Colonel’s  son,’  he  shouted. 

4  He  couldn’t  fall  off !  S’elp  me,  ’e  couldn't  fall  off,’ 
blubbered  a  drummer-boy.  4  Go  an’  hunt  acrost  the 
river.  He’s  over  there  if  he’s  anywhere,  an’  maybe 

ave  ^  ot  ’im.  For  the  love  o’  Gawd 
don  t  look  for  im  in  the  nullahs !  Let’s  go  over  the 
river.  ’ 

‘There’s  sense  in  Mott  yet,’  said  Devlin.  4E  Com- 
pany,  double  out  to  the  river  —  sharp  !  ’ 

So  E  Company,  in  its  shirt-sleeves  mainly,  doubled 
for  the  dear  life,  and  in  the  rear  toiled  the  perspiring 
Seigeant,  adjuring  it  to  double  yet  faster.  The  canton¬ 
ment  was  alive  with  the  men  of  the  195th  hunting  for 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and  the  Colonel  finally  overtook  E 
Company,  far  too  exhausted  to  swear,  struggling  in  the 
pebbles  of  the  river-bed. 

Up  the  hill  under  which  Wee  Willie  Winkie’s  Bad 
Men  were  discussing  the  wisdom  of  carrying  off  the 
child  and  the  girl,  a  look-out  fired  two  shots. 

4  What  have  I  said  ?  ’  shouted  Din  Mahommed. 

4  There  is  the  warning  !  The  pulton  are  out  already 
and  are  coming  across  the  plain  !  Get  away  I  Let  us 
not  be  seen  with  the  boy  !  ’ 

The  men  waited  for  an  instant,  and  then,  as  another 


250 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


shot  was  fired,  withdrew  into  the  hills,  silently  as  they 
had  appeared. 

‘The  wegiment  is  coming,’  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
confidently  to  Miss  Allardyce,  4  and  it’s  all  wight. 
Don’t  cwy !  ’ 

He  needed  the  advice  himself,  for  ten  minutes  later, 
when  his  father  came  up,  he  was  weeping  bitterly  with 
his  head  in  Miss  Allardyce’s  lap. 

And  the  men  of  the  195th  carried  him  home  with 
shouts  and  rejoicings ;  and  Coppy,  who  had  ridden  a 
horse  into  a  lather,  met  him,  and,  to  his  intense  dis¬ 
gust,  kissed  him  openly  in  the  presence  of  the  men. 

But  there  was  balm  for  his  dignity.  His  father 
assured  him  that  not  only  would  the  breaking  of  arrest 
be  condoned,  but  that  the  good-conduct  badge  would 
be  restored  as  soon  as  his  mother  could  sew  it  on  his 
blouse-sleeve.  Miss  Allardyce  had  told  the  Colonel 
a  story  that  made  him  proud  of  his  son. 

‘She  belonged  to  you,  Coppy,’  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  indicating  Miss  Allardyce  with  a  grimy  fore¬ 
finger.  ‘I  knew  she  didn’t  ought  to  go  acwoss  ve 
wiver,  and  I  knew  ve  wegiment  would  come  to  me  if 
I  sent  Jack  home.’ 

‘  You’re  a  hero,  Winkie,’  said  Coppy  — 4  a  pukka 
hero  !  ’ 

‘I  don’t  know  what  vat  means,’  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  ‘but  you  mustn’t  call  me  WinKie  any  no  more. 
I’m  Percival  Will’am  Will’ams.’ 

And  in  this  manner  did  Wee  Willie  Winkie  enter 
/nto  his  manhood. 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


Baa  Baa,  Black  Sheep, 

Have  you  any  wool  ? 

Yes,  Sir,  yes,  Sir,  three  bags  full. 

One  for  the  Master,  one  for  the  Dame  — 

None  for  the  Little  Boy  that  cries  down  the  lane. 

Nursery  Rhyme. 

The  First  Bag 

When  I  was  in  my  father’s  house,  I  was  in  a  better  place. 

They  were  putting  Punch  to  bed  —  the  ayah  and  the 
hamai  and  Meeta,  the  big  Surti  boy,  with  the  red  and 
gold  turban.  Judy,  already  tucked  inside  her  mosquito- 
curtains,  was  nearly  asleep.  Punch  had  been  allowed 
to  stay  up  for  dinner.  Many  privileges  had  been  ac¬ 
corded  to  Punch  within  the  last  ten  days,  and  a  greater 
kindness  from  the  people  of  his  world  had  encompassed 
his  ways  and  works,  which  were  mostly  obstreperous. 
He  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  swung  his  bare  legs 
defiantly. 

4  Punch -baba  going  to  bye-lo  ?  ’  said  the  ayah  sug¬ 
gestively. 

4  No,’  said  Punch.  4Punch-6afo&  wants  the  story 
about  the  Ranee  that  was  turned  into  a  tiger.  Meeta 
must  tell  it,  and  the  hamai  shall  hide  behind  the  door 
and  make  tiger-noises  at  the  proper  time.’ 

4  But  Judy -baba  will  wake  up,’  said  the  ayah. 

4  Jud y-baba  is  waked,’  piped  a  small  voice  from  the 

251 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


252 

mosquito-curtains.  4  There  was  a  Ranee  that  lived  at 
Delhi.  Go  on,  Meeta,’  and  she  fell  fast  asleep  again 

while  Meeta  began  the  story. 

Never  had  Punch  secured  the  telling  of  that  tale 
with  so  little  opposition.  He  reflected  for  a  long  time,  1 1 
The  hamal  made  the  tiger-noises  in  twenty  different 

keys. 

4  ’Top  !  ’  said  Punch  authoritatively.  ‘  Why  doesn’t 
Papa  come  in  and  say  he  is  going  to  give  me  put-put?' 

4  Punch-5<x&#  is  going  away,’  said  the  ayah  4  In 
another  week  there  will  be  no  Punch-5a5a  to  pull  my 
hair  any  more  ’  She  sighed  softly,  for  the  boy  of  the 
household  was  very  dear  to  her  heart. 

4  Up  the  Ghauts  in  a  train?  ’  said  Punch,  standing  on 
his  bed.  ‘All  the  way  to  Nassick  where  the  Ranee- 

Tiger  lives?’  1 

‘Not  to  Nassick  this  year,  little  Sahib,'  said  Meeta, 
lifting  him  on  his  shoulder.  4  Down  to  the  sea  where 
the  cocoanuts  are  thrown,  and  across  the  sea  in  a  big 
ship.  Will  you  take  Meeta  with  you  to  Belait?  ’ 

4  You  shall  all  come,’  said  Punch,  from  the  height  of 
Meeta’s  strong  arms.  4  Meeta  and  the  ayah  and  the 
hamal  and  Bhini-in The -Garden,  and  the  salaam-Cap- 
tain-Saliib-snake-man.  ’ 

There  was  no  mockery  in  Meeta’s  voice  when  he 
replied  — 4  Great  is  the  Sahib’s  favour,’  and  laid  the 
little  man  down  in  the  bed,  while  the  ayah ,  sitting  in 
the  moonlight  at  the  doorway,  lulled  him  to  sleep  with 
an  interminable  canticle  such  as  they  sing  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  at  Parel  Punch  curled  himself  into 
a  ball  and  slept. 

Next  morning  Judy  shouted  that  there  was  a  rat  in 
the  nursery,  and  thus  he  forgot  to  tell  her  the  wonder- 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


253 


derful  news.  It  did  not  much  matter,  for  Judy  was 
only  three  and  she  would  not  have  understood.  But 
Punch  was  five;  and  he  knew  that  going  to  England 
would  be  much  nicer  than  a  trip  to  Nassick. 

********* 

Papa  and  Mamma  sold  the  brougham  and  the  piano, 
and  stripped  the  house,  and  curtailed  the  allowance  of 
crockery  for  the  daily  meals,  and  took  long  council 
together  over  a  bundle  of  letters  bearing  the  Rockling- 
ton  postmark. 

4  The  worst  of  it  is  that  one  can’t  be  certain  of  any¬ 
thing,’  said  Papa,  pulling  his  moustache.  4  The  letters 
in  themselves  are  excellent,  and  the  terms  are  moderate 
enough.’ 

4  The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  children  will  grow  up 
away  from  me,’  thought  Mamma;  but  she  did  not  say 
it  aloud, 

4  We  are  only  one  case  among  hundreds,’  said  PajDa 
bitterly.  4  You  shall  go  Home  again  in  five  years, 
dear.  ’ 

‘Punch  will  be  ten  then— -and  Judy  eight.  Oh, 
how  long  and  long  and  long  the  time  will  be!  And  we 
have  to  leave  them  among  strangers.’ 

4  Punch  is  a  cheery  little  chap.  He’s  sure  to  make 
friends  wherever  he  goes.’ 

4  And  who  could  help  loving  my  Ju  ?  ’ 

They  were  standing  over  the  cots  in  the  nursery  late 
at  night,  and  I  think  that  Mamma  was  crying  softly. 
After  Papa  had  gone  away,  she  knelt  down  by  the  side 
of  J udy’s  cot.  The  ayah  saw  her  and  put  up  a  prayer 
that  the  memsahib  might  never  find  the  love  of  her  chil¬ 
dren  taken  away  from  her  and  given  to  a  stranger. 

Mamma’s  own  prayer  was  a  slightly  illogical  one. 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


*504 

Summarised  it  ran:  4  Let  strangers  love  my  children 
and  be  as  good  to  them  as  I  should  be,  but  let  me 
preserve  their  love  and  their  confidence  for  ever  and 
ever.  Amen.’  Punch  scratched  himself  in  his  sleep, 
and  Judy  moaned  a  little. 

Next  day,  they  all  went  down  to  the  sea,  and  there 
was  a  scene  at  the  Apollo  Bunder  when  Punch  dis¬ 
covered  that  Meeta  could  not  come  too,  and  Judy 
learned  that  the  ayah  must  be  left  behind.  But  Punch 
found  a  thousand  fascinating  things  in  the  rope,  block, 
and  steam-pipe  line  on  the  big  P,  and  O.  Steamer  long 
before  Meeta  and  the  ayah  had  dried  their  tears. 

4  Come  back,  Punch-5a6a,’  said  the  ayah, 

4  Come  back,’  said  Meeta,  4  and  be  a  Burra  Sahib  ’  (a 
big  man). 

4  Yes,’  said  Punch,  lifted  up  in  his  father’s  arms  to 
wave  good-bye.  4  Yes,  I  will  come  back,  and  I  will  be 
a  Burra  Sahib  Bahadur!  '  (a  very  big  man  indeed). 

At  the  end  of  the  first  day  Punch  demanded  to  be 
set  down  in  England,  which  he  was  certain  must  be 
close  at  hand.  Next  day  there  was  a  merry  breeze,  and 
Punch  was  very  sick.  ‘When  I  come  back  to  Bom¬ 
bay,’  said  Punch  on  his  recovery,  4 1  will  come  by  the 
road  —  in  a  broom  gharri.  This  is  a  very  naughty 
ship.’ 

The  Swedish  boatswain  consoled  him,  and  he  modified 
his  opinions  as  the  voyage  went  on  There  was  so 
much  to  see  and  to  handle  and  ask  questions  about 
that  Punch  nearly  forgot  the  ayah  and  Meeta  and  the 
hamal ,  and  with  difficulty  remembered  a  few  words  of 
the  Hindustani,  once  his  second-speech. 

But  Judy  was  much  worse.  The  day  before  the 
steamer  reached  Southampton,  Mamma  asked  her  if  she 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


255 


would  not  like  to  see  the  ayah  again.  Judy’s  blue  eyes 
turned  to  the  stretch  of  sea  that  had  swallowed  all  her 
tiny  past,  and  said:  4  Ayah !  What  ayah  V 

Mamma  cried  over  her  and  Punch  marvelled.  It 
was  then  that  he  heard  for  the  first  time  Mamma’s  pas¬ 
sionate  appeal  to  him  never  to  let  Judy  forget  Mamma. 
Seeing  that  Judy  was  young,  ridiculously  young,  and 
that  Mamma,  every  evening  for  four  weeks  past,  had 
come  into  the  cabin  to  sing  her  and  Punch  to  sleep  with  a 
mysterious  rune  that  he  called  4  Sonny,  my  soul,’  Punch 
could  not  understand  what  Mamma  meant.  But  he 
strove  to  do  his  duty ;  for,  the  moment  Mamma  left  the 
cabin,  he  said  to  Judy:  4  Ju,  you  bemember  Mamma?’ 

4  ’Torse  I  do,’  said  Judy, 

4  Then  alivays  bemember  Mamma,  ’r  else  I  won’t  give 
you  the  paper  ducks  that  the  red-haired  Captain  Sahib 
cut  out  for  me,’ 

So  Judy  promised  always  to  ‘bemember  Mamma.’ 

Many  and  many  a  time  was  Mamma’s  command  laid 
upon  Punch,  and  Papa  would  say  the  same  thing  with 
an  insistence  that  awed  the  child. 

4  You  must  make  haste  and  learn  to  write,  Punch,’ 
said  Papa,  4  and  then  you’ll  be  able  to  write  letters  to 
us  in  Bombay.’ 

4  I’ll  come  into  your  room,’  said  Punch,  and  Papa 
choked. 

Papa  and  Mamma  were  always  choking  in  those  days. 
If  Punch  took  Judy  to  task  for  not  4  bemember ing,' 
they  choked.  If  Punch  sprawled  on  the  sofa  in  the 
Southampton  lodging-house  and  sketched  his  future  in 
purple  and  gold,  they  choked;  and  so  they  did  if  Judy 
put  her  mouth  for  a  kiss. 

Through  many  days  all  four  were  vagabonds  on  the 


256 


UNDEIi  THE  DEODARS 


face  of  the  earth  —  Punch  with  no  one  to  give  orders 
to,  Judy  too  young  for  anything,  and  Papa  and  Mamma 
grave,  distracted,  and  choking. 

4  Where,’  demanded  Punch,  wearied  of  a  loathsome 
contrivance  on  four  wheels  with  a  mound  of  luggage 
atop—  -‘where  is  our  broom  -gharri?  This  thing  talks 
so  much  that  1  can’t  talk.  Where  is  our  own  broom- 
gharri ?  When  I  was  at  Bandstand  before  we  coined 
away,  I  asked  Inverarity  Sahib  why  he  was  sitting  in 
it,  and  he  said  it  was  his  own.  And  I  said,  44  I  will 
give  it  you  ”  —  I  like  Inverarity  Sahib  —  and  I  said, 
44  Can  you  put  your  legs  through  the  pully-wag  loops 
by  the  windows  ?  ”  And  Inverarity  Sahib  said  No,  and 
laughed.  I  can  put  my  legs  through  the  pully-wag 
loops.  I  can  put  my  legs  through  these  pully-wag 
loops.  Look  !  Oh,  Mamma’s  crying  again  !  I  didn’t 
know  I  wasn’t  not  to  do  so.’ 

Punch  drew  his  legs  out  of  the  loops  of  the  four- 
wheeler:  the  door  opened  and  he  slid  to  the  earth,  in  a 
cascade  of  parcels,  at  the  door  of  an  austere  little  villa 
whose  gates  bore  the  legend  4  Downe  Lodge/  Punch 
gathered  himself  together  and  eyed  the  house  with  clis 
favour.  It  stood  on  a  sandy  road,  and  a  cold  wind 
tickled  his  knickerbockered  legs. 

4  Let  us  go  away,’  said  Punch.  4  This  is  not  a  pretty 

place.’ 

But  Mamma  and  Papa  and  Judy  had  left  the  cab,  and 
all  the  luggage  was  being  taken  into  the  house.  At  the 
doorstep  stood  a  woman  in  black,  and  she  smiled  largely, 
with  dry  chapped  lips.  Behind  her  was  a  man,  big, 
bony,  gray,  and  lame  as  to  one  leg  —  behind  him  a  boy 
of  twelve,  black- haired  and  oily  in  appearance.  Punch 

surveved  the  trio,  and  advanced  without  fear,  as  he  had 

*/  • 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


257 


been  accustomed  to  do  in  Bombay  when  callers  came 
and  he  happened  to  be  playing  in  the  veranda. 

‘How  do  you  do?’  said  he.  ‘I  am  Punch.’  But 
they  were  all  looking  at  the  luggage  - —  all  except  the 
gray  man,  who  shook  hands  with  Punch,  and  said  he 
was  ‘a  smart  little  fellow,’  There  was  much  running 
about  and  banging  of  boxes,  and  Punch  curled  himself 
up  on  the  sofa  in  the  dining-room  and  considered 
things 

‘  I  don’t  like  these  people,’  said  Punch.  ‘  But  never 
mind.  We’ll  go  away  soon.  We  have  always  went 
away  soon  from  everywhere.  I  wish  we  was  gone  back 
to  Bombay  soonS 

The  wish  bore  no  fruit.  For  six  days  Mamma  wept 
at  intervals,  and  showed  the  woman  in  black  all  Punch’s 
clothes  —  a  liberty  which  Punch  resented.  ‘  But  p’raps 
she’s  a  new  white  ayah ,’  he  thought.  ‘  I’m  to  call  her 
Antirosa,  but  she  doesn’t  call  me  Sahib.  She  says  just 
Punch,’  he  confided  to  Judy.  ‘  What  is  Antirosa?  ’ 

Judy  didn’t  know.  Neither  she  nor  Punch  had 
heard  anything  of  an  animal  called  an  aunt.  Their 
world  had  been  Papa  and  Mamma,  who  knew  every¬ 
thing,  permitted  everything,  and  loved  everybody  — 
even  Punch  when  he  used  to  go  into  the  garden  at 
Bombay  and  fill  his  nails  with  mould  after  the  weekly 
'  nail-cutting,  because,  as  he  explained  between  two 
strokes  of  the  slipper  to  his  sorely  tried  Father,  his 
fingers  1  felt  so  new  at  the  ends.’ 

In  an  undefined  way  Punch  judged  it  advisable  to 
keep  both  parents  between  himself  and  the  woman  in 
black  and  the  boy  in  black  hair.  He  did  not  approve 
of  them.  He  liked  the  gray  man,  who  had  expressed  a 
wish  to  be  called  ‘  Uncleharri.’  They  nodded  at  each 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


258 

other  when  they  met,  and  the  gray  man  showed  him  a 
little  ship  with  rigging  that  took  up  and  down. 

‘She  is  a  model  of  the  Brisk  —  the  little  Brisk  that 
was  sore  exposed  that  day  at  Navarino.’  The  gray  man 
hummed  the  last  words  and  fell  into  a  reverie.  ‘  I’ll 
tell  you  about  Navarino,  Punch,  when  we  go  for  walks 
together ;  and  you  mustn’t  touch  the  ship,  because  she’s 

the  Brisk 

Long  before  that  walk,  the  first  of  many,  was  taken, 
they  roused  Punch  and  Judy  in  the  chill  dawn  of  a 
February  morning  to  say  Good  bye ;  and  of  all  people 
in  the  wide  earth  to  Papa  and  Mamma  —  both  crying 
this  time.  Punch  was  very  sleepy  and  Judy  was  cross. 

‘  Don’t  forget  us,’  pleaded  Mamma.  ‘  Oh,  my  little 
son,  don’t  forget  us,  and  see  that  Judy  remembers  too.’ 

‘  I’ve  told  Judy  to  bemember,’  said  Punch,  wriggling, 
for  his  father’s  beard  tickled  his  neck.  4 1  ve  told 

Judy _ ten  —  forty  —  ’leven  thousand  times.  But  J u’s 

so  young  —  quite  a  baby  —  isn’t  she  ? 

‘Yes,’  said  Papa,  ‘quite  a  baby,  and  you  must  be 
good  to  Judy,  and  make  haste  to  learn  to  write  and 

and  —  and - ’ 

Punch  was  back  in  his  bed  again.  Judy  was  fast 
asleep,  and  there  was  the  rattle  of  a  cab  below.  Papa 
and  Mamma  had  gone  away.  Not  to  Nassick;  that  was 
across  the  sea.  To  some  place  much  nearer,  of  course, 
and  equally  of  course  they  would  return.  They  came 
back  after  dinner  parties,  and  Papa  had  come  back  after 
he  had  been  to  a  place  called  ‘  The  Snows,’  and  Mamma 
with  him,  to  Punch  and  Judy  at  Mrs.  Inveraritys 
house  in  Marine  Lines.  Assuredly  they  would  come 
back  again.  So  Punch  fell  asleep  till  the  true  morn* 
ing,  when  the  black-haired  boy  met  him  with  the  in 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


259 


formation  that  Papa  and  Mamma  had  gone  to  Bombay, 
and  that  he  and  Judy  were  to  stay  at  Downe  Lodge 
‘forever.’  Antirosa,  tearfully  appealed  to  for  a  con¬ 
tradiction,  said  that  Harry  had  spoken  the  truth,  and 
that  it  behooved  Punch  to  fold  up  his  clothes  neatly 
on  going  to  bed.  Punch  went  out  and  wept  bitterly 
with  Judy,  into  whose  fair  head  he  had  driven  some 
ideas  of  the  meaning  of  separation. 

When  a  matured  man  discovers  that  he  has  been 
deserted  by  Providence,  deprived  of  his  God,  and  cast, 
without  help,  comfort,  or  sympathy,  upon  a  world 
which  is  new  and  strange  to  him,  his  despair,  which 
may  find  expression  in  evil-living,  the  writing  of  his 
experiences,  or  the  more  satisfactory  diversion  of  sui¬ 
cide,  is  generally  supposed  to  be  impressive.  A  child, 
under  exactly  similar  circumstances  as  far  as  its 
knowledge  goes,  cannot  very  well  curse  God  and  die. 
It  howls  till  its  nose  is  red,  its  eyes  are  sore,  and  its 
head  aches.  Punch  and  Judy,  through  no  fault  of 
their  own,  had  lost  all  their  world.  They  sat  in  the 
hall  and  cried;  the  black-haired  boy  looking  on  from 
afar. 

The  model  of  the  ship  availed  nothing,  though  the 
gray  man  assured  Punch  that  he  might  pull  the  rigging 
up  and  down  as  much  as  he  pleased;  and  Judy  was 
promised  free  entry  into  the  kitchen.  They  wanted 
Papa  and  Mamma  gone  to  Bombay  beyond  the  seas,  and 
their  grief  while  it  lasted  was  without  remedy. 

When  the  tears  ceased  the  house  was  very  still. 
Antirosa  had  decided  that  it  was  better  to  let  the 
children  ‘have  their  cry  out,’  and  the  boy  had  gone  to 
school.  Punch  raised  his  head  from  the  floor  and 
sniffed  mournfully.  Judy  was  nearly  asleep.  Three 


260 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


short  years  had  not  taught  her  how  to  bear  sorrow  with 
full  knowledge.  There  was  a  distant,  dull  boom  in  the 
air  —  a  repeated  heavy  thud.  Punch  knew  that  sound 
in  Bombay  in  the  Monsoon.  It  was  the  sea  the  sea  that 
must  be  traversed  before  any  one  could  get  to  Bombay. 

<•  Quick,  Ju  !  ’  he  cried, 4  we’re  close  to  the  sea.  I  can 
hear  it !  Listen  !  That’s  where  they’ve  went.  P’raps 
we  can  catch  them  if  we  was  in  time.  They  didn’t 
mean  to  go  without  us.  They’ve  only  forgot. 

4  Iss,’  said  Judy.  4  They’ve  only  forgotted.  Less  go 

to  the  sea.’ 

The  hall-door  was  open  and  so  was  the  garden-gate, 

4  It's  very,  very  big,  this  place,’  he  said,  looking  cau¬ 
tiously  down  the  road,  4 and  we  will  get  lost ;  but  Twill 
find  a  man  and  order  him  to  take  me  back  to  my  house 
—  like  I  did  in  Bombay.’ 

He  took  Judy  by  the  hand,  and  the  two  ran  hatless 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound  of  the  sea.  Downe  Villa 
wac  almost  the  last  of  a  range  of  newly-built  houses 
running  out,  through  a  field  of  brick-mounds,  to  a  heath 
where  gypsies  occasionally  camped  and  where  the  Gar¬ 
rison  Artillery  of  Rocklington  practised.  There  were 
few  people  to  be  seen,  and  the  children  might  have  been 
taken  for  those  of  the  soldiery  who  ranged  far.  Half 
an  hour  the  wearied  little  legs  tramped  across  heath, 
potato-patch,  and  sand-dune. 

4I’se  so  tired,’  said  Judy, 4 and  Mamma  will  be  angry.’ 

4  Mamma’s  never  angry.  I  suppose  she  is  waiting  at 
the  sea  now  while  Papa  gets  tickets.  We’ll  find  them 
and  go  along  with.  Ju,  you  mustn’t  sit  down.  Only 
a  little  more  and  we’ll  come  to  the  sea.  Ju,  if  you  sit 
down  I’ll  thmack  you  !  *  said  Punch. 

They  climbed  another  dune,  and  came  upon  the  great 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


261 


gray  sea  at  low  tide.  Hundreds  of  crabs  were  scuttling 
about  the  beach,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  Papa  and 
Mamma,  not  even  of  a  ship  upon  the  waters  —  nothing 
but  sand  and  mud  for  miles  and  miles. 

And  4  Uncleharri  ’  found  them  by  chance  —  very 
muddy  and  very  forlorn  —  Punch  dissolved  in  tears, 
but  trying  to  divert  Judy  with  an  4  ickle  trab,’  and 
Judy  wailing  to  the  pitiless  horizon  for  ‘Mamma, 
Mamma!  ’  ■ — and  again  4  Mamma! 9 

The  Second  Bag 

Ah,  well-a-day,  for  we  are  souls  bereaved ! 

Of  all  the  creatures  under  Heaven’s  wide  scope 
We  are  most  hopeless,  who  had  once  most  hope, 

And  most  beliefless,  who  had  most  believed. 

The  City  of  Breadful  Night. 

. 

All  this  time  not  a  word  about  Black  Sheep.  He 
came  later,  and  Harry  the  black-haired  boy  was  mainly 
responsible  for  his  coming. 

Judy  —  who  could  help  loving  little  Judy? — passed, 
by  special  permit,  into  the  kitchen  and  thence  straight 
to  Aunty  Rosa’s  heart.  Harry  was  Aunty  Rosa’s  one 
child,  and  Punch  was  the  extra  boy  about  the  house, 
'there  was  no  special  place  for  him  or  his  little  affairs, 
and  he  was  forbidden  to  sprawl  on  sofas  and  explain  his 
ideas  about  the  manufacture  of  this  world  and  his  hopes 
for  his  future.  Sprawling  was  lazy  and  wore  out  sofas, 
and  little  boys  were  not  expected  to  talk.  They  were 
talked  to,  and  the  talking  to  was  intended  for  the  bene¬ 
fit  of  their  morals.  As  the  unquestioned  despot  of  the 
house  at  Bombay,  Punch  could  not  quite  understand 
how  he  came  to  be  of  no  account  in  this  his  new  life. 


262 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Harry  might  reach  across  the  table  and  take  what  he 
wanted ;  Judy  might  point  and  get  what  she  wanted. 
Punch  was  forbidden  to  do  either.  The  gray  man  was 
his  great  hope  and  stand-by  for  many  months  after 
Mamma  and  Papa  left,  and  he  had  forgotten  to  tell 

Judy  to  ‘bemember  Mamma.’ 

This  lapse  was  excusable,  because  in  the  interval 
he  had  been  introduced  by  Aunty  Rosa  to  two  very 
impressive  things  —  an  abstraction  called  God,  the  inti- 
mate  friend  and  ally  of  Aunty  Rosa,  generally  believed 
to  live  behind  the  kitchen-range  because  it  was  hot 
there _ and  a  dirty  brown  hook  filled  with  unintelli¬ 

gible  dots  and  marks.  Punch  was  always  anxious  to 
oblige  everybody.  He  therefore  welded  the  story  of 
the  Creation  on  to  what  he  could  recollect  of  his  Indian 
fairy  tales,  and  scandalised  Aunty  Rosa  by  repeating 
the  result  to  Judy.  It  was  a  sin,  a  grievous  sin,  and 
Punch  was  talked  to  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  He 
could  not  understand  where  the  iniquity  came  in,  but 
was  careful  not  to  repeat  the  offence,  because  Aunty 
Rosa  told  him  that  God  had  heard  every  word  he  had 
said  and  was  very  angry.  If  this  were  true,  why 
didn’t  God  come  and  say  so,  thought  Punch,  and  dis¬ 
missed  the  matter  from  his  mind.  Afterwards  he 
learned  to  know  the  Lord  as  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  more  awful  than  Aunty  Rosa  — as  a  Creature 
that  stood  in  the  background  and  counted  the  strokes 

of  the  cane. 

But  the  reading  was,  just  then,  a  much  more  serious 
matter  than  any  creed.  Aunty  Rosa  sat  him  upon  a 
table  and  told  him  that  A  B  meant  ab. 

‘Why?’  said  Punch.  ‘A  is  a  and  B  is  bee.  Why 

does  A  B  mean  ab  ?  ’ 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


263 

4 Because  I  tell  you  it  does,’  said  Aunty  Rosa,  ‘and 
you’ve  got  to  say  it.’ 

Punch  said  it  accordingly,  and  for  a  month,  hugely 
against  his  will,  stumbled  through  the  brown  book,  not 
in  the  least  comprehending  what  it  meant.  But  Uncle 
Harry,  who  walked  much  and  generally  alone,  was  wont 
to  come  into  the  nursery  and  suggest  to  Aunty  Rosa  1 
that  Punch  should  walk  with  him.  He  seldom  spoke, 
but  he  showed  Punch  all  Rocklington,  from  the  mud- 
banks  and  the  sand  of  the  back-bay  to  the  great  har¬ 
bours  where  ships  lay  at  anchor,  and  the  dockyards 
where  the  hammers  were  never  still,  and  the  marine- 
store  shops,  and  the  shiny  brass  counters  in  the  Offices 
where  Uncle  Harry  went  once  every  three  months  with  a 
slip  of  blue  paper  and  received  sovereigns  in  exchange ; 
for  he  held  a  wound-pension.  Punch  heard,  too,  from 
his  lips  the  story  of  the  battle  of  Navarino,  where  the 
sailors  of  the  Fleet,  for  three  days  afterwards,  were  deaf 
as  posts  and  could  only  sign  to  each  other.  ‘  That  was 
because  of  the  noise  of  the  guns,’  said  Uncle  Harry, 

‘and  I  have  got  the  wadding  of  a  bullet  somewhere 
inside  me  now.’ 

Punch  regarded  him  with  curiosity.  He  had  not  the 
least  idea  what  wadding  was,  and  his  notion  of  a  bullet 
was  a  dockyard  cannon-ball  bigger  than  his  own  head. 
How  could  Uncle  Harry  keep  a  cannon-ball  inside  him  ? 

He  was  ashamed  to  ask,  for  fear  Uncle  Harry  might  be 
angry. 

Punch  had  never  known  what  anger  —  real  anger  — 
meant  until  one  terrible  day  when  Harry  had  taken 
his  paint-box  to  paint  a  boat  with,  and  Punch  had  pro' 
tested.  Then  Uncle  Harry  had  appeared  on  the  scene 
and,  muttering  something  about  ‘strangers’  children,’ 


264 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


had  with  a  stick  smitten  the  black-haired  boy  across 
the  shoulders  till  he  wept  and  yelled,  and  Aunty  Rosa 
came  in  and  abused  Uncle  Harry  for  cruelty  to  his  OAvn 
flesh  and  blood,  and  Punch  shuddered  to  the  tips  of  his 
shoes.  4  It  wasn’t  my  fault,’  he  explained  to  the  boy, 
but  both  Harry  and  Aunty  Rosa  said  that  it  was,  and 
that  Punch  had  told  tales,  and  for  a  week  there  were  no 
more  walks  with  Uncle  Harry. 

But  that  week  brought  a  great  joy  to  Punch. 

He  had  repeated  till  he  was  thrice  weary  the  state¬ 
ment  that  4  the  Cat  lay  on  the  Mat  and  the  Rat  came  in. 

4  Now  I  can  truly  read,’  said  Punch,  4  and  now  I  will 
never  read  anything  in  the  world.’ 

He  put  the  brown  book  in  the  cupboard  where  his 
school-books  lived  and  accidentally  tumbled  out  a 
venerable  volume,  without  covers,  labelled  Sharpe's 
Magazine.  There  was  the  most  portentous  picture  of  a 
griffin  on  the  first  page,  with  verses  below.  The  griffin 
carried  off  one  sheep  a  day  from  a  German  village,  till 
a  man  came  with  a  4 falchion’  and  split  the  griffin  open. 
Goodness  only  knew  what  a  falchion  was,  but  there  was 
the  Griffin,  and  his  history  was  an  improvement  upon 
the  eternal  Cat. 

4  This,’  said  Punch,  ‘means  things,  and  now  I  will 
know  all  about  everything  in  all  the  woild.  He  ie«..u 
till  the  light  failed,  not  understanding  a  tithe  of  the 
meaning,  but  tantalised  by  glimpses  of  new  worlds 
hereafter  to  be  revealed. 

‘  What  is  a  44  falchion  ”  ?  What  is  a  44  e-wee  lamb  ”  ? 
What  is  a  44  base  usurper  ”  ?  What  is  a  44  verdant 
me-ad  ”  ?  ’  he  demanded  with  flushed  cheeks,  at  bed¬ 
time,  of  the  astonished  Aunty  Rosa. 

4  Say  your  prayers  and  go  to  sleep,’  she  replied,  and 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


265 


that  was  all  the  help  Punch  then  or  afterwards  found 
at  her  hands  in  the  new  and  delightful  exercise  of 
reading.  < 

‘  Aunty  Rosa  only  knows  about  God  and  things  like 
that,’  argued  Punch.  4  Uncle  Harry  will  tell  me.’ 

The  next  walk  proved  that  Uncle  Harry  could  not 
help  either ;  but  he  allowed  Punch  to  talk,  and  even 
sat  down  on  a  bench  to  hear  about  the  Griffin.  Other 
walks  brought  other  stories  as  Punch  ranged  further 
afield,  for  the  house  held  large  store  of  old  books  that 
no  one  ever  opened— from  Frank  Fairlegh  in  serial 
numbers,  and  the  earlier  poems  of  Tennyson,  con¬ 
tributed  anonymously  to  Sharpe's  Magazine ,  to  ’62 
Exhibition  Catalogues,  gay  with  colours  and  delight¬ 
fully  incomprehensible,  and  odd  leaves  of  Gulliver's 
Travels. 

As  soon  as  Punch  could  string  a  few  pot-hooks 
together,  he  wrote  to  Bombay,  demanding  by  return  of 
post  ‘all  the  books  in  all  the  world.’  Papa  could  not 
comply  with  this  modest  indent,  but  sent  Grimm's  Fairy 
Tales  and  a  Hans  Andersen.  That  was  enough.  If  he 
were  only  left  alone  Punch  could  pass,  at  any  hour  he 
chose,  into  a  land  of  his  own,  beyond  reach  of  Aunty 
Rosa  and  her  God,  Harry  and  his  teasements,  and 
Judy’s  claims  to  be  played  with. 

‘Don’t  disturve  me,  I’m  reading.  Go  and  play  in 
the  kitchen,’  grunted  Punch.  ‘  Aunty  Rosa  lets  you  go 
there.’  Judy  was  cutting  her  second  teeth  and  was 
fretful.  She  appealed  to  Aunty  Rosa,  who  descended 
on  Punch. 

‘I  was  reading,'  he  explained,  ‘reading  a  book.  I 
want  to  read.’ 

4  You’re  only  doing  that  to  show  off,’  said  Aunty 


2G6 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Rosa.  4  But  we’ll  see.  Play  with  Judy  now,  and  don’t 
open  a  book  for  a  week.’ 

Judy  did  not  pass  a  very  enjoyable  playtime  with 
Punch,  who  was  consumed  with  indignation.  There 
was  a  pettiness  at  the  bottom  of  the  prohibition  which 
puzzled  him. 

‘It’s  what  I  like  to  do,’  he  said,  ‘and  she’s  found 
out  that  and  stopped  me.  Don’t  cry,  Ju  —  it  wasn’t 
your  fault  —  please  don’t  cry,  or  she  11  say  I  made  you. 

Ju  loyally  mopped  up  her  tears,  and  the  two  played 
in  their  nursery,  a  room  in  the  basement  and  half 
underground,  to  which  they  were  regularly  sent  after 
the  midday  dinner  while  Aunty  Rosa  slept.  She  drank 
wine  —  that  is  to  say,  something  from  a  bottle  in  the 
cellaret  —  for  her  stomach’s  sake,  but  if  she  did  not 
fall  asleep  she  would  sometimes  come  into  the  nursery 
to  see  that  the  children  were  really  playing.  Now 
bricks,  wooden  hoops,  ninepins,  and  chinaware  cannot 
amuse  for  ever,  especially  when  all  Fairyland  is  to  be 
won  by  the  mere  opening  of  a  book,  and,  as  often  as 
not,  Punch  would  be  discovered  reading  to  Judy  or 
telling  her  interminable  tales.  That  was  an  offence  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law,  and  Judy  would  be  whisked  off  by 
Aunty  Rosa,  while  Punch  was  left  to  play  alone,  ‘  and 
be  sure  that  I  hear  you  doing  it.’ 

It  was  not  a  cheering  employ,  for  he  had  to  make  a 
playful  noise.  At  last,  with  infinite  craft,  he  devised 
an  arrangement  whereby  the  table  could  be  supported 
as  to  three  legs  on  toy  bricks,  leaving  the  fourth  clear 
to  bring  down  on  the  floor.  He  could  work  the  table 
with  one  hand  and  hold  a  book  with  the  other.  This 
he  did  till  an  evil  day  when  Aunty  Rosa  pounced  upon 
him  unawares  and  told  him  that  he  was  4  acting  a  lie.’ 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


267 


' 


4  If  you’re  old  enough  to  do  that,’  she  said  —  her 
temper  was  always  worst  after  dinner  —  ‘  you’re  old 
enough  to  be  beaten.’ 

‘But  —  I’m  —  I’m  not  a  animal!  ’  said  Punch  aghast. 
He  remembered  Uncle  Harry  and  the  stick,  and  turned 
white.  Aunty  Rosa  had  hidden  a  light  cane  behind 
her,  and  Punch  was  beaten  then  and  there  over  the 
shoulders.  It  was  a  revelation  to  him.  The  room-door 
was  shut,  and  he  was  left  to  weep  himself  into  repent¬ 
ance  and  work  out  his  own  gospel  of  life. 

Aunty  Rosa,  he  argued,  had  the  power  to  beat  him 
with  many  stripes.  It  was  unjust  and  cruel,  and 
Mamma  and  Papa  would  never  have  allowed  it.  Un¬ 
less  perhaps,  as  Aunty  Rosa  seemed  to  imply,  they  had 
sent  secret  orders.  In  which  case  he  was  abandoned 
indeed.  It  would  be  discreet  in  the  future  to  propitiate 
Aunty  Rosa,  but,  then,  again,  even  in  matters  in  which 
he  was  innocent,  he  had  been  accused  of  wishing  to 
‘show  off.’  He  had  ‘shown  off’  before  visitors  when 
he  had  attacked  a  strange  gentleman  —  Harry’s  uncle, 
not  his  own  — -  with  requests  for  information  about  the 
Griffin  and  the  falchion,  and  the  precise  nature  of  the 
Tilbury  in  which  Frank  Fairlegh  rode  —  all  points  of 
paramount  interest  which  he  was  bursting  to  under¬ 
stand.  Clearly  it  would  not  do  to  pretend  to  care  for 
Aunty  Rosa. 

At  this  point  Harry  entered  and  stood  afar  off, 
eying  Punch,  a  dishevelled  heap  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  with  disgust. 

‘You’re  a  liar — a  young  liar,’  said  Harry,  with  great 
unction,  ‘and  you’re  to  have  tea  down  here  because 
you’re  not  fit  to  speak  to  us.  And  you’re  not  to  speak 
to  Judy  again  till  Mother  gives  you  leave.  You’ll 


268 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


corrupt  her.  You’re  only  fit  to  associate  with  the  ser 
vant.  Mother  says  so.’ 

Haying  reduced  Punch  to  a  second  agony  of  tears, 
Harry  departed  upstairs  with  the  news  that  Punch  was 
still  rebellious. 

Uncle  Harry  sat  uneasily  in  the  dining-room.  4  Damn 
it  all,  Rosa,’  said  he  at  last,  4  can’t  you  leave  the  child 
alone?  He’s  a  good  enough  little  chap  when  I  meet 
him.’ 

4  He  puts  on  his  best  manners  with  you,  Henry,’  said 
Aunty  Rosa,  4  but  I’m  afraid,  I’m  very  much  afraid,  that 
he  is  the  Black  Sheep  of  the  family.’ 

Harry  heard  and  stored  up  the  name  for  future  use. 
Judy  cried  till  she  was  bidden  to  stop,  her  brother  not 
being  worth  tears  ;  and  the  evening  concluded  with  the 
return  of  Punch  to  the  upper  regions  and  a  private  sit¬ 
ting  at  which  all  the  blinding  horrors  of  Hell  were  re¬ 
vealed  to  Punch  with  such  store  of  imagery  as  Aunty 
Rosa’s  narrow  mind  possessed. 

Most  grievous  of  all  was  Judy’s  round-eyed  reproach, 
and  Punch  went  to  bed  in  the  depths  of  the  Valley 
of  Humiliation.  He  shared  his  room  with  Harry  and 
knew  the  torture  in  store.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  he 
had  to  answer  that  young  gentleman’s  question  as  to 
his  motives  for  telling  a  lie,  and  a  grievous  lie,  the 
precise  quantity  of  punishment  inflicted  by  Aunty 
Rosa,  and  had  also  to  profess  his  deep  gratitude  for 
such  religious  instruction  as  Harry  thought  fit  to 
impart. 

From  that  day  began  the  downfall  of  Punch,  now 
Black  Sheep. 

4  Untrustworthy  in  one  thing,  untrustworthy  in  all,' 
said  Aunty  Rosa,  and  Harry  felt  that  Black  Sheep  was 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


269 


delivered  into  his  hands.  He  would  wake  him  up  in 
the  night  to  ask  him  why  he  was  such  a  liar. 

4 1  don’t  know,’  Punch  would  reply. 

4  Then  don’t  you  think  you  ought  to  get  up  and  pray 
to  God  for  a  new  heart  ?  ’ 

4  Y-yess.’ 

4  Get  out  and  pray,  then !  ’  And  Punch  would  get 
out  of  bed  with  raging  hate  in  his  heart  against  all  the 
world,  seen  and  unseen.  He  was  always  tumbling  into 
trouble.  Harry  had  a  knack  of  cross-examining  him 
as  to  his  day’s  doings,  which  seldom  failed  to  lead  him, 
sleepy  and  savage,  into  half  a  dozen  contradictions  — 
all  duly  reported  to  Aunty  Rosa  next  morning. 

‘But  it  wasn't  a  lie,’  Punch  would  begin,  charging  into 
a  laboured  explanation  that  landed  him  more  hopelessly 
in  the  mire.  4 1  said  that  I  didn’t  say  my  prayers  twice 
over  in  the  day,  and  that  was  on  Tuesday.  Once  I  did. 
I  know  I  did,  but  Harry  said  I  didn’t,’  and  so  forth,  till 
the  tension  brought  tears,  and  he  was  dismissed  from 
the  table  in  disgrace. 

‘You  usen’t  to  be  as  bad  as  this?’  said  Judy,  awe¬ 
stricken  at  the  catalogue  of  Black  Sheep’s  crimes. 

4  Why  are  you  so  bad  now  ?  ’ 

4 1  don’t  know,’  Black  Sheep  would  reply.  4  I’m  not, 
if  I  only  wasn’t  bothered  upside  down.  I  knew  what  I 
did ,  and  I  want  to  say  so ;  but  Harry  always  makes  it 
out  different  somehow,  and  Aunty  Rosa  doesn’t  believe 
a  word  I  say.  Oh,  Ju!  don’t  you  say  I’m  bad  too.’ 

‘Aunty  Rosa  says  you  are,’  said  Judy.  4  She  told 
the  Yicar  so  when  he  came  yesterday.’ 

4  Why  does  she  tell  all  the  people  outside  the  house 
about  me?  It  isn’t  fair,’  said  Black  Sheep.  ‘When 
I  was  in  Bombay,  and  was  bad  —  doina  bad,  not 


270 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


made-up  bad  like  this  —  Mamma  told  Papa,  and  Papa 
lold  me  he  knew,  and  that  was  all.  Outside  people 
iidn’t  know  too  —  even  Meeta  didn’t  know.’ 

‘I  don’t  remember,’  said  Judy  wistfully.  4 1  was  all 
little  then.  Mamma  was  just  as  fond  of  you  as  she  was 
of  me,  wasn’t  she  ?  ’ 

‘’Course  she  was.  So  was  Papa.  So  was  every¬ 
body.’ 

4  Aunty  Rosa  likes  me  more  than  she  does  you.  She 
says  that  you  are  a  Trial  and  a  Black  Sheep,  and  I’m 
not  to  speak  to  you  more  than  I  can  help.’ 

4  Always?  Not  outside  of  the  times  when  you  mustn’l 
speak  to  me  at  all  ?  ’ 

Judy  nodded  her  head  mournfully.  Black  Sheej 
turned  away  in  despair,  but  Judy’s  arms  were  round 
his  neck. 

‘Never  mind,  Punch,’  she  whispered.  4 1  will  speak 
to  you  just  the  same  as  ever  and  ever.  You’re  my  own 
own  brother  though  you  are  —  though  Aunty  Rosa  says 
you’re  Bad,  and  Harry  says  you’re  a  little  coward.  He 
says  that  if  I  pulled  your  hair  hard,  you’d  cry.’ 

4  Pull,  then,’  said  Punch. 

Judy  pulled  gingerly. 

4  Pull  harder  —  as  hard  as  you  can!  There!  I  don’t 
mind  how  much  you  pull  it  now.  If  you’ll  speak  to  me 
same  as  ever  I’ll  let  you  pull  it  as  much  as  you  like  — 
pull  it  out  if  you  like.  But  I  know  if  Harry  came  and 
stood  by  and  made  you  do  it  I’d  cry.’ 

So  the  two  children  sealed  the  compact  with  a  kiss, 
and  Black  Sheep’s  heart  was  cheered  within  him,  and 
by  extreme  caution  and  careful  avoidance  of  Harry  he 
acquired  virtue,  and  was  allowed  to  read  undisturbed 
for  a  week.  Uncle  Harry  took  him  for  walks,  and 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


271 


consoled  him  with  rough  tenderness,  never  calling  him 
Black  Sheep.  ‘It’s  good  for  you,  I  suppose,  Punch, 
he  used  to  say.  4  Let  us  sit  down.  I’m  getting  tired.’ 
His  steps  led  him  now  not  to  the  beach,  but  to  the 
Cemetery  of  Rocklington,  amid  the  potato-fields.  For 
hours  the  gray  man  would  sit  on  a  tombstone,  while 
Black  Sheep  read  epitaphs,  and  then  with  a  sigh  would 
stump  home  again. 

4 1  shall  lie  there  soon,’  said  he  to  Black  Sheep,  one 
winter  evening,  when  his  face  showed  white  as  a  worn 
silver  coin  under  the  light  of  the  lych-gate.  4  You 
needn’t  tell  Aunty  Rosa.’ 

A  month  later,  he  turned  sharp  round,  ere  half  a 
morning  walk  was  completed,  and  stumped  back  to  the 
house.  4  Put  me  to  bed,  Rosa,’  he  muttered.  4  I’ve 
walked  my  last.  The  wadding  has  found  me  out.  ’ 

They  put  him  to  bed,  and  for  a  fortnight  the  shadow 
of  his  sickness  lay  upon  the  house,  and  Black  Sheep 
went  to  and  fro  unobserved.  Papa  had  sent  him  some 
new  books,  and  he  was  told  to  keep  quiet.  He  retired 
into  his  own  world,  and  was  perfectly  happy.  Even  at 
night  his  felicity  was  unbroken.  He  could  lie  in  bed 
and  string  himself  tales  of  travel  and  adventure  while 
Harry  was  downstairs. 

‘Uncle  Harry’s  going  to  die,’  said  Judy,  who  now 
lived  almost  entirely  with  Aunty  Rosa. 

4  I’m  very  sorry,’  said  Black  Sheep  soberly.  4  He 
told  me  that  a  long  time  ago.’ 

Aunty  Rosa  heard  the  conversation.  4  Will  nothing 
check  your  wicked  tongue  ?  ’  she  said  angrily.  There 
were  blue  circles  round  her  eyes. 

Black  Sheep  retreated  to  the  nursery  and  read  Cometh 
up  as  a  Flower  with  deep  and  uncomprehending  in- 


272 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


terest.  He  had  been  forbidden  to  open  it  on  account 
of  its  4  sinfulness,’  but  the  bonds  of  the  Universe  were 
crumbling,  and  Aunty  Rosa  was  in  great  grief. 

4  I’m  glad,’  said  Black  Sheep.  4  She’s  unhappy  now. 
It  wasn’t  a  lie,  though.  I  knew.  He  told  me  not 
to  tell.’ 

That  night  Black  Sheep  woke  with  a  start.  Harry 
was  not  in  the  room,  and  there  was  a  sound  of  sobbing 
on  the  next  floor.  Then  the  voice  of  Uncle  Harry, 
singing  the  song  of  the  Battle  of  Navarino,  came 
through  the  darkness  :  — 

‘  Our  vanship  was  the  Asia  — 

The  Albion  and  Genoa !  ’ 

4  He’s  getting  well,’  thought  Black  Sheep,  who  knew 
the  song  through  all  its  seventeen  verses.  But  the 
blood  froze  at  his  little  heart  as  he  thought.  The 
voice  leapt  an  octave,  and  rang  shrill  as  a  boatswain’s 

( And  next  came  on  the  lovely  Rose, 

The  Philomel,  her  fire-ship,  closed, 

And  the  little  Brisk  was  sore  exposed 
That  day  at  Navarino.’ 

4  That  day  at  Navarino,  Uncle  Harry!  ’  shouted  Black 
Sheep,  half  wild  with  excitement  and  fear  of  he  knew 
not  what. 

A  door  opened,  and  Aunty  Rosa  screamed  up  the 
staircase:  4 Hush!  For  God’s  sake  hush,  you  little 
devil.  Uncle  Harry  is  dead!  ’ 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


273 


The  Third  Bag 

Journeys  end  in  lovers’  meeting, 

Every  wise  man’s  son  doth  know. 

‘I  wonder  what  will  happen  to  me  now,’  thought 
Black  Sheep,  when  semi-pagan  rites  peculiar  to  the 
burial  of  the  Dead  in  middle-class  houses  had  been 
accomplished,  and  Aunty  Rosa,  awful  in  black  crape, 
had  returned  to  this  life.  4 1  don’t  think  I’ve  done 
anything  bad  that  she  knows  of.  I  suppose  I  will 
soon.  She  will  be  very  cross  after  Uncle  Harry’s 
dying,  and  Harry  will  be  cross  too.  I’ll  keep  in  the 
nursery.’ 

Unfortunately  for  Punch’s  plans,  it  was  decided  that 
he  should  be  sent  to  a  day-school  which  Harry  attended. 
This  meant  a  morning  walk  with  Harry,  and  perhaps 
an  evening  one;  but  the  prospect  of  freedom  in  the 
interval  was  refreshing.  4  Harry’ll  tell  everything  I 
do,  but  I  won’t  do  anything,’  said  Black  Sheep.  Forti¬ 
fied  with  this  virtuous  resolution,  he  went  to  school 
only  to  find  that  Harry’s  version  of  his  character  had 
preceded  him,  and  that  life  was  a  burden  in  conse¬ 
quence.  He  took  stock  of  his  associates.  Some  of 
them  were  unclean,  some  of  them  talked  in  dialect, 
many  dropped  their  h’s,  and  there  were  two  Jews  and 
a  negro,  or  some  one  quite  as  dark,  in  the  assembly. 
4  That’s  a  hubshi ,’  said  Black  Sheep  to  himself.  4  Even 
Meeta  used  to  laugh  at  a  hubshi.  I  don't  think  this  is 
a  proper  place.’  He  was  indignant  for  at  least  an  hour, 
till  he  reflected  that  any  expostulation  on  his  part  would 
be  by  Aunty  Rosa  construed  into  ‘showing  off,’  and 
that  Harry  would  tell  the  boys. 


274 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4  How  do  yon  like  school  ?  ’  said  Aunty  Rosa  at  tne 
end  of  the  day. 

4 1  think  it  is  a  very  nice  place,’  said  Punch  quietly. 

•*  I  suppose  you  warned  the  boys  of  Black  Sheep’s 
character  ?  ’  said  Aunty  Rosa  to  Harr}^. 

4  Oh  yes,’  said  the  censor  of  Black  Sheep’s  morals. 

4  They  know  all  about  him.’ 

4  If  I  was  with  my  father,’  said  Black  Sheep,  stung  to 
the  quick, 4 1  shouldn’t  speak  to  those  boys.  He  wouldn’t 
let  me.  They  live  in  shops.  I  saw  them  go  into  shops 
—  where  their  fathers  live  and  sell  things.’ 

4  You’re  too  good  for  that  school,  are  you?’  said 
Aunty  Rosa,  with  a  bitter  smile.  4  You  ought  to  be 
grateful,  Black  Sheep,  that  those  boys  speak  to  you  at 
all.  It  isn’t  every  school  that  takes  little  liars.’ 

Harry  did  not  fail  to  make  much  capital  out  of  Black 
Sheep’s  ill-considered  remark ;  with  the  result  that 
several  boys,  including  the  hubshi ,  demonstrated  to 
Black  Sheep  the  eternal  equality  of  the  human  race  by 
smacking  his  head,  and  his  consolation  from  Aunty 
Rosa  was  that  it  ‘served  him  right  for  being  vain.' 
He  learned,  however,  to  keep  his  opinions  to  himself, 
and  by  propitiating  Harry  in  carrying  books  and  the 
like  to  get  a  little  peace.  His  existence  was  not  too 
joyful.  From  nine  till  twelve  he  was  at  school,  and 
from  two  to  four,  except  on  Saturdays.  In  the  even¬ 
ings  he  was  sent  down  into  the  nursery  to  prepare  his 
lessons  for  the  next  day,  and  every  night  came  the 
dreaded  cross-questionings  at  Harry’s  hand.  Of  J udy 
he  saw  but  little.  She  was  deeply  religious  —  at  six 
years  of  age  Religion  is  easy  to  come  by  —  and  sorely 
divided  between  her  natural  love  for  Black  Sheep  and 
her  love  for  Aunty  Rosa,  who  could  do  no  wrong. 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


275 

The  lean  woman  returned  that  love  with  interest, 
and  Judy,  when  she  dared,  took  advantage  of  this  for 
the  remission  of  Black  Sheep’s  penalties.  Failures  in 
lessons  at  school  were  punished  at  home  by  a  week 
without  reading  other  than  schoolbooks,  and  Harry 
brought  the  news  of  such  a  failure  with  glee.  Further, 
Black  Sheep  was  then  bound  to  repeat  his  lessons  at 
bedtime  to  Harry,  who  generally  succeeded  in  making 
him  break  down,  and  consoled  him  by  gloomiest  fore¬ 
bodings  for  the  morrow.  Harry  was  at  once  spy, 
practical  joker,  inquisitor,  and  Aunty  Rosa’s  deputy 
executioner.  He  filled  his  many  posts  to  admiration. 
Prom  his  actions,  now  that  Uncle  Harry  was  dead, 
there  was  no  appeal.  Black  Sheep  had  not  been  per¬ 
mitted  to  keep  any  self-respect  at  school:  at  home  he 
was  of  course  utterly  discredited,  and  grateful  for  any 
pity  that  the  servant-girls  —  they  changed  frequently 
at  Downe  Lodge  because  they,  too,  were  liars  —  might 
show.  ‘You’re  just  fit  to  row  in  the  same  boat  with 
Black  Sheep,  was  a  sentiment  that  each  new  Jane  or 
Eliza  might  expect  to  hear,  before  a  month  was  over, 
from  Aunty  Rosa’s  lips ;  and  Black  Sheep  was  used  to 
ask  new  girls  whether  they  had  yet  been  compared  to 
him.  Harry  was  ‘Master  Harry’  in  their  mouths ; 
Judy  was  officially  ‘Miss  Judy’;  but  Black  Sheep  was 
never  anything  more  than  Black  Sheep  tout  court. 

As  time  went  on  and  the  memory  of  Papa  and  Mamma 
became  wholly  overlaid  by  the  unpleasant  task  of  writ¬ 
ing  them  letters,  under  Aunty  Rosa’s  eye,  each  Sunday, 
Black  Sheep  forgot  what  manner  of  life  he  had  led 
in  the  beginning  of  things.  Even  Judy’s  appeals  to 
‘try  and  remember  about  Bombay’  failed  to  quicken 
him. 


276 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


4 1  can’t  remember,  ’  lie  said.  4 1  know  I  used  to  give 
orders  and  Mamma  kissed  me.’ 

4  Aunty  Rosa  will  kiss  you  if  you  are  good,’  pleaded 
Judy. 

4  Ugh!  I  don’t  want  to  be  kissed  by  Aunty  Rosa. 

8 he’d  say  I  was  doing  it  to  get  something  more  to 

eat.’ 

The  weeks  lengthened  into  months,  and  the  holidays 
came,  but  just  before  the  holidays  Black  Sheep  fell  into 
deadly  sin. 

Among  the  many  boys  whom  Harry  had  incited  to 
‘  punch  Black  Sheep’s  head  because  he  daren’t  hit  back,' 
was  one  more  aggravating  than  the  rest,  who,  in  an  un¬ 
lucky  moment,  fell  upon  Black  Sheep  when  Harry  was 
not  near.  The  blows  stung,  and  Black  Sheep  struck 
back  at  random  with  all  the  power  at  his  command. 
The  boy  dropped  and  whimpered.  Black  Sheep  was 
astounded  at  his  own  act,  but,  feeling  the  unresisting 
body  under  him,  shook  it  with  both  his  hands  in  blind 
fury  and  then  began  to  throttle  his  enemy,  meaning 
honestly  to  slay  him.  There  was  a  scuffle,  and  Black 
Sheep  was  torn  off  the  body  by  Harry  and  some 
colleagues,  and  cuffed  home  tingling  but  exultant. 
Aunty  Rosa  was  out :  pending  her  arrival,  Harry  sent 
himself  to  lecture  Black  Sheep  on  the  sin  of  murder 
—  which  he  described  as  the  offence  of  Cain. 

4  Why  didn’t  you  fight  him  fair  ?  What  did  you  hit 
him  when  he  was  down  for,  you  little  cur  ?  ’ 

Black  Sheep  looked  up  at  Harry’s  throat  and  then  at 
a  knife  on  the  dinner-table. 

4 1  don’t  understand,’  he  said  wearily,  4  You  always 
set  him  on  me  and  told  me  I  was  a  coward  when  I 
blubbed.  Will  you  leave  me  alone  until  Aunty  Rosa 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


2  <  7 

comes  in  ?  She’ll  beat  me  if  you  tell  her  I  ought  to  be 
beaten  ;  so  it’s  all  right.’ 

‘It’s  all  wrong,’  said  Harry  magisterially.  ‘You 
nearly  killed  him,  and  I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  he  dies.’ 

‘Will  he  die  ?  ’  said  Black  Sheep. 

‘  I  dare  say,’  said  Harry,  ‘  and  then  you’ll  be  hanged, 
and  go  to  Hell.’ 

‘All  right,’  said  Black  Sheep,  picking  up  the  table- 
knife.  ‘Then  I’ll  kill  you  noAV.  You  say  things  and 
do  things  and  —  and  I  don’t  know  how  things  happen, 
and  you  never  leave  me  alone  —  and  I  don’t  care  what 
happens ! ’ 

He  ran  at  the  boy  with  the  knife,  and  Harry  fled 
upstairs  to  his  room,  promising  Black  Sheep  the  finest 
thrashing  in  the  world  when  Aunty  Rosa  returned. 
Black  Sheep  sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  the  table- 
knife  in  his  hand,  and  wept  for  that  he  had  not  killed 
Harry.  The  servant-girl  came  up  from  the  kitchen, 
took  the  knife  away,  and  consoled  him.  But  Black 
Sheep  was  beyond  consolation.  He  would  be  badly 
beaten  by  Aunty  Rosa  then  there  would  be  another 
beating  at  Harry’s  hands ;  then  Judy  would  not  be 
allowed  to  speak  to  him  ;  then  the  tale  would  be  told  at 
school  and  then - 

There  was  no  one  to  help  and  no  one  to  care,  and 
the  best  way  out  of  the  business  was  by  death.  A 
knife  would  hurt,  but  Aunty  Rosa  had  told  him,  a  year 
ago,  that  if  he  sucked  paint  he  would  die.  He  went 
into  the  nursery,  unearthed  the  now  disused  Noah’s 
Ark,  and  sucked  the  paint  off  as  many  animals  as 
remained.  It  tasted  abominable,  but  he  had  licked 
Noah’s  Dove  clean  by  the  time  Aunty  Rosa  and  Jud}7- 
returned.  He  went  upstairs  and  greeted  them  with ; 


278 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


1  Please,  Aunty  Rosa,  I  believe  I’ve  nearly  killed  a  boy 
at  school,  and  I’ve  tried  to  kill  Harry,  and  when  you’ve 
done  all  about  God  and  Hell,  will  you  beat  me  and  get 
it  over  ?  ’ 

The  tale  of  the  assault  as  told  by  Harry  could  only 
be  explained  on  the  ground  of  possession  by  the  Devil. 
Wherefore  Black  Sheep  was  not  only  most  excellently 
beaten,  once  by  Aunty  Rosa  and  once,  when  thoroughly 
cowed  down,  by  Harry,  but  he  was  further  prayed  for 
at  family  prayers,  together  with  Jane  who  had  stolen  a 
cold  rissole  from  the  pantry  and  snuffled  audibly  as 
her  sin  was  brought  before  the  Throne  of  Grace.  Black 
Sheep  was  sore  and  stiff  but  triumphant.  He  would 
die  that  very  night  and  be  rid  of  them  all.  No,  he 
would  ask  for  no  forgiveness  from  Harry,  and  at  bed¬ 
time  would  stand  no  questioning  at  Harry’s  hands, 
even  though  addressed  as  ‘Young  Cain.’ 

‘I’ve  been  beaten,’  said  he,  ‘and  I’ve  done  other 
things.  I  don’t  care  what  I  do.  If  you  speak  to  me 
to-night,  Harry,  I’ll  get  out  and  try  to  kill  you.  Now 
you  can  kill  me  if  you  like  ’ 

Harry  took  his  bed  into  the  spare  room,  and  Black 
Sheep  lay  down  to  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  makers  of  Noah’s  Arks  know  that 
their  animals  are  likely  to  find  their  way  into  young 
mouths,  and  paint  them  accordingly.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  common,  weary  next  morning  broke  through 
the  windows  and  found  Black  Sheep  quite  well  and  a 
good  deal  ashamed  of  himself,  but  richer  by  the  knowl¬ 
edge  that  he  could,  in  extremity,  secure  himself  against 
Harry  for  the  future. 

When  he  descended  to  breakfast  on  .the  first  day  of 
the  holidays,  he  was  greeted  with  the  news  that  Harry, 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


279 


Aunty  Rosa,  and  Judy  were  going  away  to  Brighton, 
while  Black  Sheep  was  to  stay  in  the  house  with  the 
servant.  His  latest  outbreak  suited  Aunty  Rosa’s 
plans  admirably.  It  gave  her  good  excuse  for  leaving 
the  extra  boy  behind.  Papa  in  Bombay,  who  really 
seemed  to  know  a  young  sinner’s  wants  to  the  hour, 
sent,  that  week,  a  package  of  new  books.  And  with 
these,  and  the  society  of  Jane  on  board-wages,  Black 
Sheep  was  left  alone  for  a  month. 

The  books  lasted  for  ten  days.  They  were  ea.ten  too 
quickly  in  long  gulps  of  twelve  hours  at  a  time.  Then 
came  days  of  doing  absolutely  nothing,  of  dreaming 
dreams  and  marching  imaginary  armies  up  and  down 
stairs,  of  counting  the  number  of  banisters,  and  of 
measuring  the  length  and  breadth  of  every  room  in 
handspans  —  fifty  down  the  side,  thirty  across,  and 
fifty  back  again.  Jane  made  many  friends,  and,  after 
receiving  Black  Sheep’s  assurance  that  he  would  not 
tell  of  her  absences,  went  out  daily  for  long  hours. 
Black  Sheep  would  follow  the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  dining-room  and  thence  upward 
to  his  own  bedroom  until  all  was  gray  dark,  and  he  ran 
down  to  the  kitchen  fire  and  read  by  its  light.  He  was 
happy  in  that  he  was  left  alone  and  could  read  as  much 
as  he  pleased.  But,  later,  he  grew  afraid  of  the  shadows 
of  window-curtains  and  the  flapping  of  doors  and  the 
creaking  of  shutters.  He  went  out  into  the  garden, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  laurel-bushes  frightened  him. 

He  was  glad  when  they  all  returned  —  Aunty  Rosa, 
Harry,  and  Judy  —  full  of  news,  and  Judy  laden  with 
gifts.  Who  could  help  loving  loyal  little  Judy  ?  In 
return  for  all  her  merry  babblement,  Black  Sheep  con¬ 
fided  to  her  that  the  distance  from  the  hall-door,  to  the 


280 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS  - 


top  of  the  first  landing  was  exactly  one  hundred  and 
eighty-four  handspans.  He  had  found  it  out  himself. 

Then  the  old  life  recommenced ;  but  with  a  differ¬ 
ence,  and  a  new  sin.  To  his  other  iniquities  Black 
Sheep  had  now  added  a  phenomenal  clumsiness  —  was 
as  unlit  to  trust  in  action  as  he  was  in  word.  He  himself 
could  not  account  for  spilling  everything  he  touched, 
upsetting  glasses  as  he  put  his  hand  out,  and  bumping 
his  head  against  doors  that  were  manifestly  shut. 
There  was  a  gray  haze  upon  all  his  world,  and  it 
narrowed  month  by  month,  until  at  last  it  left  Black 
Sheep  almost  alone  with  the  flapping  curtains  that 
were  so  like  ghosts,  and  the  nameless  terrors  of  broad 
daylight  that  were  only  coats  on  pegs  after  all. 

Holidays  came  and  holidays  went  and  Black  Sheep 
was  taken  to  see  many  people  whose  faces  were  all 
exactly  alike  ;  was  beaten  when  occasion  demanded, 
and  tortured  by  Harry  on  all  possible  occasions ;  hut 
defended  by  Judy  through  good  and  evil  report,  though 
she  hereby  drew  upon  herself  the  wrath  of  Aunty  Rosa. 

The  weeks  were  interminable,  and  Papa  and  Mamma 
were  clean  forgotten.  Harry  had  left  school  and  was 
a  clerk  in  a  Banking-Office.  Freed  from  his  presence, 
Black  Sheep  resolved  that  he  should  no  longer  be 
deprived  of  his  allowance  of  pleasure-reading.  Con¬ 
sequently  when  he  failed  at  school  he  reported  that  all 
was  well,  and  conceived  a  large  contempt  for  Aunty 
Rosa  as  he  saw  how  easy  it  was  to  deceive  her.  4  She 
says  I’m  a  little  liar  when  I  don’t  tell  lies,  and  now  I 
do,  she  doesn’t  know,’  thought  Black  Sheep.  Aunty 
Rosa  had  credited  him  in  the  past  with  petty  cun¬ 
ning  and  stratagem  that  had  never  entered  into  his 
head.  •  By  the  light  of  the  sordid  knowledge  that  she 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


281 


had  revealed  to  him  he  paid  her  hack  full  tale.  In 
a  household  where  the  most  innocent  of  his  motives, 
his  natural  yearning  for  a  little  affection,  had  been 
interpreted  into  a  desire  for  more  bread  and  jam  or 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  strangers  and  so  put  Harry 
into  the  background,  his  work  was  easy.  Aunty  Rosa 
could  penetrate  certain  kinds  of  hypocrisy,  but  not  all. 
He  set  his  child’s  wits  against  hers  and  was  no  more 
beaten.  It  grew  monthly  more  and  more  of  a  trouble 
to  read  the  schoolbooks,  and  even  the  pages  of  the 
open-print  story-books  danced  and  were  dim.  So 
Black  Sheep  brooded  in  the  shadows  that  fell  about 
him  and  cut  him  off  from  the  world,  inventing  horrible 
punishments  for  4  dear  Harry,’  or  plotting  another  line 
of  the  tangled  web  of  deception  that  he  wrapped  round 
Aunty  Rosa. 

Then  the  crash  came  and  the  cobwebs  were  broken. 
It  was  impossible  to  foresee  everything.  Aunty  Rosa 
made  personal  enquiries  as  to  Black  Sheep’s  progress 
and  received  information  that  startled  her.  Step  by 
step,  with  a  delight  as  keen  as  when  she  convicted  an 
underfed  housemaid  of  the  theft  of  cold  meats,  she  fol¬ 
lowed  the  trail  of  Black  Sheep’s  delinquencies.  For 
weeks  and  weeks,  in  order  to  escape  banishment  from 
the  book-shelves,  he  had  made  a  fool  of  Aunty  Rosa,  of 
Harry,  of  God,  of  all  the  world  !  Horrible,  most  horri¬ 
ble,  and  evidence  of  an  utterly  depraved  mind. 

Black.  Sheep  counted  the  cost.  4  It  will  only  be  one 
big  beating  and  then  she’ll  put  a  card  with  44  Liar  ”  on 
my  back,  same  as  she  did  before.  Harry  will  whack 
me  and  pray  for  me,  and  she  will  pray  for  me  at  prayers 
and  tell  me  I’m  a  Child  of  the  Devil  and  give  me  hymns 
to  learn.  But  I’ve  done  all  my  reading  and  she  never 


282 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


knew.  She’ll  say  she  knew  all  along.  She’s  an  old  liar 
too,’  said  he. 

For  three  days  Black  Sheep  was  shut  in  his  own  bed¬ 
room  —  to  prepare  his  heart.  4  That  means  two  beat¬ 
ings.  One  at  school  and  one  here.  That  one  will  hurt 
most.’  And  it  fell  even  as  he  thought.  He  was 
thrashed  at  school  before  the  Jews  and  the  hubshi,  for 
the  heinous  crime  of  bringing  home  false  reports  of 
progress.  He  was  thrashed  at  home  by  Aunty  Rosa  on 
the  same  count,  and  then  the  placard  was  produced. 
Aunty  Rosa  stitched  it  between  his  shoulders  and  bade 
him  go  for  a  walk  with  it  upon  him. 

‘  If  you  make  me  do  that,’  said  Black  Sheep  very 
quietly,  4 1  shall  burn  this  house  down,  and  perhaps  I’ll 
kill  you.  I  don’t  know  whether  I  can  kill  you — you’re 
so  bony  —  but  I’ll  try.’ 

No  punishment  followed  this  blasphemy,  though  Black 
Sheep  held  himself  ready  to  work  his  way  to  Aunty 
Rosa’s  withered  throat,  and  grip  there  till  he  was  beaten 
off.  Perhaps  Aunty  Rosa  was  afraid,  for  Black  Sheep, 
haying  reached  the  Nadir  of  Sin,  bore  himself  with  a 
new  recklessness. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  trouble  there  came  a  visitor 
from  over  the  seas  to  Downe  Lodge,  who  knew  Papa 
and  Mamma,  and  was  commissioned  to  see  Punch 
and  Judy.  Black  Sheep  was  sent  to  the  drawing¬ 
room  and  charged  into  a  solid  tea-table  laden  with 
china. 

4  Gently,  gently,  little  man,’  said  the  visitor,  turning 
Black  Sheep’s  face  to  the  light  slowly.  4  What’s  that 
big  bird  on  the  palings  ?  ’ 

4  What  bird?’  asked  Black  Sheep. 

The  visitor  looked  deep  down  into  Black  Sheep’s  eyes 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  283 

for  half  a  minute,  and  then  said  suddenly:  ‘Good  God, 
the  little  chap’s  nearly  blind !’ 

It  was  a  most  business-like  visitor.  He  gave  orders, 
on  his  own  responsibility,  that  Black  Sheep  was  not  to 
go  to  school  or  open  a  book  until  Mamma  came  home. 

‘  She’ll  be  here  in  three  weeks,  as  you  know  of  course,’ 
said  he,  ‘  and  I’m  Inverarity  Sahib.  I  ushered  you  into 
this  wicked  world,  young  man,  and  a  nice  use  you  seem 
to  have  made  of  your  time.  You  must  do  nothing  what¬ 
ever.  Can  you  do  that  ?  ’ 

‘Yes,’ said  Punch  in  a  dazed  way.  He  had  known 
that  Mamma  was  coming.  There  was  a  chance,  then, 
of  another  beating.  Thank  Heaven,  Papa  wasn’t  com¬ 
ing  too.  Aunty  Rosa  had  said  of  late  that  he  ought  to 
be  beaten  by  a  man. 

For  the  next  three  weeks  Black  Sheep  was  strictly 
allowed  to  do  nothing.  He  spent  his  time  in  the  old 
nursery  looking  at  the  broken  toys,  for  all  of  which  ac¬ 
count  must  be  rendered  to  Mamma.  Aunty  Rosa  hit 
him  over  the  hands  if  even  a  wooden  boat  were  broken. 
But  that  sin  was  of  small  importance  compared  to  the 
other  revelations,  so  darkly  hinted  at  by  Aunty  Rosa. 

‘  When  yohr  Mother  comes,  and  hears  what  I  have  to 
tell  her,  she  may  appreciate  you  properly,’  she  said 
grimly,  and  mounted  guard  over  Judy  lest  that  small 
maiden  should  attempt  to  comfort  her  brother,  to  the 
peril  of  her  souh 

And  Mamma  came  —  in  a  four-wheeler  —  fluttered 
with  tender  excitement.  Such  a  Mamma!  She  was 
young,  frivolously  young,  and  beautiful,  with  delicately 
flushed  cheeks,  eyes  that  shone  like  stars,  and  a  voice 
that  needed  no  appeal  of  outstretched  arms  to  draw  lit¬ 
tle  ones  to  her  heart.  Judy  ran  straight  to  her,  but 


284  UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

Black  Sheep  hesitated.  Could  this  wonder  be  ‘  show 
ing  off  ’  ?  She  would  not  put  out  her  arms  when  she 
knew  of  his  crimes.  Meantime  was  it  possible  that 
by  fondling  she  wanted  to  get  anything  out  of  Black 
Sheep?  Only  all  his  love  and  all  his  confidence,  but 
that  Black  Sheep  did  not  know.  Aunty  Rosa  with¬ 
drew  and  left  Mamma,  kneeling  between  her  children, 
half  laughing,  half  crying,  in  the  very  hall  where 
Punch  and  Judy  had  wept  five  years  before. 

4  Well,  chicks,  do  you  remember  me  ?  ’ 

‘No,'  said  Judy  frankly,  ‘but  I  said,  “God  bless  Papa 
and  Mamma,”  ev'vy  night.' 

‘  A  little,’  said  Black  Sheep.  ‘  Remember  I  wrote  to 
you  every  week,  anyhow.  That  isn’t  to  show  off,  but 
’cause  of  what  comes  afterwards.’ 

‘What  comes  after?  What  should  come  after,  my 
darling  boy?’  And  she  drew  him  to  her  again.  He 
came  awkwardly,  with  many  angles.  ‘Not  used  to 
petting,’  said  the  quick  Mother-soul.  ‘  The  girl  is.’ 

‘  She’s  too  little  to  hurt  any  one,’  thought  Black  Sheep, 
‘  and  if  I  said  I’d  kill  her,  she’d  be  afraid.  I  wonder 
what  Aunty  Rosa  will  tell.’ 

There  was  a  constrained  late  dinner,  at  the  end  of 
which  Mamma  picked  up  J udy  and  put  her  to  bed  with 
endearments  manifold.  Faithless  little  Judy  had  shown 
her  defection  from  Aunty  Rosa  already.  And  that 
lady  resented  it  bitterly.  Black  Sheep  rose  to  leave 
the  room. 

‘  Come  and  sav  good-night,  said  Aunty  Rosa,  offer¬ 
ing  a  withered  che^k. 

‘Huh!’  said  Black  Sheep.  ‘I  never  kiss  you,  and 
I’m  not  going  to  show  ofi*  Tell  that  woman  what  I’ve 
done,  and  see  what  she  say£> f 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP 


285 


Black  Sheep  climbed  into  bed  feeling  that  he  had  lost 
Heaven  after  a  glimpse  through  the  gates.  In  half  an 
hour  ‘that  woman’  was  bending  over  him.  Black  Sheep 
flung  up  his  right  arm.  It  wasn’t  fair  to  come  and  hit 
him  in  the  dark.  Even  Aunty  Rosa  never  tried  that. 
But  no  blow  followed. 

‘Are  you  showing  off?  I  won’t  tell  you  anything 
more  than  Aunty  Rosa  has,  and  she  doesn’t  know  every¬ 
thing,’  said  Black  Sheep  as  clearly  as  he  could  for  the 
arms  round  his  neck. 

‘  Oh,  my  son — my  little,  little  son!  It  was  my  fault 
—  my  fault,  darling  —  and  yet  how  could  we  help  it  ? 
Forgive  me,  Punch.’  The  voice  died  out  in  a  broken 
whisper,  and  two  hot  tears  fell  on  Black  Sheep’s  fore¬ 
head. 

‘  Has  she  been  making  you  cry  too ?  ’  he  asked.  ‘You 
should  see  Jane  cry.  But  you’re  nice,  and  Jane  is  a 
Born  Liar  —  Aunty  Rosa  says  so.’ 

‘Hush,  Punch,  hush!  My  boy,  don’t  talk  like  that. 
Try  to  love  me  a  little  bit — a  little  bit.  You  don’t 
know  how  I  want  it.  Punch-5<x5a,  come  back  to  me! 
I  am  your  Mother — your  own  Mother — and  never 
mind  the  rest.  I  know  —  yes,  I  know,  dear.  It  doesn’t 
matter  now.  Punch,  won’t  you  care  for  me  a  little  ?  ’ 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  petting  a  big  boy  of  ten 
can  endure  when  he  is  quite  sure  that  there  is  no  one  to 
laugh  at  him.  Black  Sheep  had  never  been  made  much 
of  before,  and  here  was  this  beautiful  woman  treating 
him  —  Black  Sheep,  the  Child  of  the  Devil  and  the  in¬ 
heritor  of  undying  flame  —  as  though  he  were  a  small  God. 

‘  I  care  for  you  a  great  deal,  Mother  dear,’  he  whis¬ 
pered  at  last,  ‘  and  I’m  glad  you’ve  come  back ,  but  are 
you  sure  Aunty  Rosa  told  you  everything  ?  ’ 


286 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


6  Everything.  Wliat  does  it  matter  ?  But '  —  the 
voice  broke  with  a  sob  that  was  also  laughter  — 
‘Punch,  my  poor,  dear,  half -blind  darling,  don’t  you 
think  it  was  a  little  foolish  of  you  ?  ’ 

‘  No.  It  saved  a  lickin’.’ 

Mamma  shuddered  and  slipped  away  in  the  darkness 
to  write  a  long  letter  to  Papa.  Here  is  an  extract:  — 

,  .  .  Judy  is  a  dear,  plump  little  prig  who  adores  the  woman, 
and  wears  with  as  much  gravity  as  her  religious  opinions  —  only 
eight,  Jack !  —  a  venerable  horse-hair  atrocity  which  she  calls  her 
Bustle !  I  have  just  burnt  it,  and  the  child  is  asleep  in  my  bed 
as  I  write.  She  will  come  to  me  at  once.  Punch  I  cannot  quite 
understand.  He  is  well  nourished,  but  seems  to  have  been  worried 
into  a  system  of  small  deceptions  which  the  woman  magnifies  into 
deadly  sins.  Don’t  you  recollect  our  own  upbringing,  dear,  when 
the  Fear  of  the  Lord  was  so  often  the  beginning  of  falsehood  ?  1 
shall  win  Punch  to  me  before  long.  I  am  taking  the  children 
away  into  the  country  to  get  them  to  know  me,  and,  on  the  whole, 
I  am  content,  or  shall  be  when  you  come  home,  dear  boy,  and  then, 
thank  God,  we  shall  be  all  under  one  roof  again  at  last ! 

Three  months  later,  Punch,  no  longer  Black  Sheep^ 
has  discovered  that  he  is  the  veritable  owner  of  a  real, 
live,  lovely  Mamma,  who  is  also  a  sister,  comforter,  and 
friend,  and  that  he  must  protect  her  till  the  Father 
comes  home.  Deception  does  not  suit  the  part  of  a 
protector,  and,  when  one  can  do  anything  without 
question,  where  is  the  use  of  deception? 

4  Mother  would  be  awfully  cross  if  you  walked 
through  that  ditch,’  says  Judy,  continuing  a  conver¬ 
sation. 

‘Mother’s  never  angry,’  says  Punch.  ‘She’d  just 
say,  “You’re  a  little  pagal and  that’s  not  nice,  but 
Pll  show.’ 

Punch  walks  through  the  ditch  and  mires  himself 


BAA  BAA,  BLACK  SHEEP  287 

to  the  knees.  ‘Mother,  clear,’  he  shouts,  ‘I’m  just  as 
dirty  as  I  can  pos-si'bly  be !  ’ 

‘Then  change  your  clothes  as  quickly  as  you  pos¬ 
sibly  can !  ’  Mother’s  clear  voice  rings  out  from  the 
house.  ‘And  don’t  be  a  little  paged!  ’ 

‘There!  ’Told  you  so,’  says  Punch.  ‘It’s  all  differ¬ 
ent  now,  and  we  are  just  as  much  Mother’s  as  if  she 
had  never  gone.  ’ 

Not  altogether,  O  Punch,  for  when  young  lips  have 
drunk  deep  of  the  bitter  waters  of  Hate,  Suspicion, 
and  Despair,  all  the  Love  in  the  world  will  not  wholly 
take  away  that  knowledge ;  though  it  may  turn  dark¬ 
ened  eyes  for  a  while  to  the  light,  and  teach  Faith 
where  no  Faith  was. 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


Where  the  word  of  a  King  is,  there  is  power :  And  who  may  say 
anto  him  —  What  doest  thou  ? 

‘Yeth!  And  Chimo  to  sleep  at  ve  foot  of  ve  bed, 
and  ve  pink  pikky-book,  and  ve  bwead —  ’cause  I  will 
be  hungwy  in  ve  night  — and  vat’s  all,  Miss  Biddums. 
And  now  give  me  one  kiss  and  I’ll  go  to  sleep.  — So! 
Kite  quiet.  Ow!  Ve  pink  pikky-book  has  slidded 
under  ve  pillow  and  ve  bwead  is  cwumbling!  Miss 
Biddums!  Miss  i?ic?-dums!  I’m  so  uncomfy!  Come 
and  tuck  me  up,  Miss  Biddums-’ 

His  Majesty  the  King  was  going  to  bed;  and  poor, 
patient  Miss  Biddums,  who  had  advertised  herself 
humbly  as  a  ‘young  person,  European,  accustomed  to 
the  care  of  little  children,’  was  forced  to  wait  upon 
his  royal  caprices.  The  going  to  bed  was  always  a 
lengthy  process,  because  His  Majesty  had  a  convenient 
knack  of  forgetting  which  of  his  many  friends,  from 
the  mehter’s  son  to  the  Commissioner’s  daughter,  he 
had  prayed  for,  and,  lest  the  Deity  should  take  offence, 
was  used  to  toil  through  his  little  prayers,  in  all  rever¬ 
ence,  five  times  in  one  evening.  His  Majesty  the 
King  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer  as  devoutly  as 
he  believed  in  Chimo  the  patient  spaniel,  or  Miss  Bid¬ 
dums,  who  could  reach  him  down  his  gun  —  ‘with  cur- 
suffun  caps  —  reel  ones  ’  —  from  the  upper  shelves  of 
the  big  nursery  cupboard. 

At  the  door  of  the  nursery  his  authority  stopped. 
Beyond  lay  the  empire  of  his  father  and  mother  —  twc 

288 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


289 


very  terrible  people  who  had  no  time  to  waste  upon 
His  Majesty  the  King.  His  voice  was  lowered  when 
he  passed  the  frontier  of  his  own  dominions,  his  actions 
were  fettered,  and  his  soul  was  filled  with  awe  because 
of  the  grim  man  who  lived  among  a  wilderness  of 
pigeon-holes  and  the  most  fascinating  pieces  of  red 
tape,  and  the  wonderful  woman  who  was  always  get¬ 
ting  into  or  stepping  out  of  the  big  carriage. 

To  the  one  belonged  the  mysteries  of  the  ‘duf tar- 
room  ,  ’  to  the  other  the  great,  reflected  wilderness  of 
the  ‘Memsahib’s  room’  where  the  shiny,  scented  dresses 
hung  on  pegs,  miles  and  miles  up  in  the  air,  and  the 
just-seen  plateau  of  the  toilet-table  revealed  an  acreage 
of  speckly  combs,  broidered  4hanafitch-bags,  ’  and 4  white- 
headed  ’  brushes. 

There  was  no  room  for  His  Majesty  the  King  either 
in  official  reserve  or  worldly  gorgeousness.  He  had 
discovered  that,  ages  and  ages  ago  —  before  even  Chimo 
came  to  the  house,  or  Miss  Biddums  had  ceased  griz¬ 
zling  over  a  packet  of  greasy  letters  which  appeared  to 
be  her  chief  treasure  on  earth.  His  Majesty  the  King, 
therefore,  wisely  confined  himself  to  his  own  territories, 
where  only  Miss  Biddums,  and  she  feebly,  disputed 
his  sway. 

From  Miss  Biddums  he  had  picked  up  his  simple 
theology  and  welded  it  to  the  legends  of  gods  and 
devils  that  he  had  learned  in  the  servants’  quarters. 

To  Miss  Biddums  he  confided  with  equal  trust  his 
tattered  garments  and  his  more  serious  griefs.  She 
would  make  everything  whole.  She  knew  exactly  how 
the  Earth  had  been  born,  and  had  reassured  the  trem¬ 
bling  soul  of  His  Majesty  the  King  that  terrible  time 
in  July  when  it  rained  continuously  for  seven  days  and 


u 


290 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


seven  nights,  and  —  there  was  no  Ark  ready  and  all 
the  ravens  had  flown  away!  She  was  the  most  power¬ 
ful  person  with  whom  he  was  brought  into  contact  — 
always  excepting  the  two  remote  and  silent  people 
beyond  the  nursery  door. 

How  was  His  Majesty  the  King  to  know  that,  six 
years  ago,  in  the  summer  of  his  birth,  Mrs.  Austell, 
turning  over  her  husband’s  papers,  had  come  upon  the 
intemperate  letter  of  a  foolish  woman  who  had  been 
carried  away  by  the  silent  man’s  strength  and  personal 
beauty?  How  could  he  tell  what  evil  the  overlooked 
slip  of  notepaper  had  wrought  in  the  mind  of  a  desper¬ 
ately  jealous  wife?  How  could  he,  despite  his  wis¬ 
dom,  guess  that  his  mother  had  chosen  to  make  of  it 
excuse  for  a  bar  and  a  division  between  herself  and  her 
husband,  that  strengthened  and  grew  harder  to  break 
with  each  year ;  that  she,  having  unearthed  this  skele¬ 
ton  in  the  cupboard,  had  trained  it  into  a  household 
God  which  should  be  about  their  path  and  about  their 
bed,  and  poison  all  their  ways  ? 

These  things  were  beyond  the  province  of  His 
Majesty  the  King.  He  only  knew  that  his  father  was 
daily  absorbed  in  some  mysterious  work  for  a  thing 
called  the  Sirkar  and  that  his  mother  was  the  victim 
alternately  of  the  Nautch  and  the  Burrakhana.  To 
these  entertainments  she  was  escorted  by  a  Captain- 
Man  for  whom  His  Majesty  the  King  had  no  regard. 

‘He  doesn’t  laugh,’  he  argued  with  Miss  Biddums, 
who  would  fain  have  taught  him  charity.  ‘He  only 
makes  faces  wiv  his  mouf,  and  when  he  wants  to 
o-muse  me  I  am  not  o-mused.’  And  His  Majesty  the 
King  shook  his  head  as  one  who  knew  the  deceitfulness 
of  this  world. 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


291 


Morning  and  evening  it  was  his  duty  to  salute  his 
father  and  mother  —  the  former  with  a  grave  shake  of 
the  hand,  and  the  latter  with  an  equally  grave  kiss. 
Once,  indeed,  he  had  put  his  arms  round  his  mother’s 
neck,  in  the  fashion  he  used  towards  Miss  Biddums. 
The  openwork  of  his  sleeve-edge  caught  in  an  earring, 
and  the  last  stage  of  His  Majesty’s  little  overture  was 
a  suppressed  scream  and  summary  dismissal  to  the 
nursery. 

‘It  is  wT’ong,’  thought  His  Majesty  the  King,  ‘to 
hug  Memsahibs  wiv  fings  in  veir  ears.  I  will  amem- 
ber.  ’  He  never  repeated  the  experiment. 

Miss  Biddums,  it  must  be  confessed,  spoilt  him  as 
much  as  his  nature  admitted,  in  some  sort  of  recom¬ 
pense  for  what  she  called  ‘the  hard  ways  of  his  Papa 
and  Mamma.  ’  She,  like  her  charge,  kneiv  nothing  of 
the  trouble  between  man  and  wife  —  the  savage  con¬ 
tempt  for  a  woman’s  stupidity  on  the  one  side,  or  the 
dull,  rankling  anger  on  the  other.  Miss  Biddums  had 
looked  after  many  little  children  in  her  time,  and 
served  in  many  establishments.  Being  a  discreet 
woman,  she  observed  little  and  said  less,  and,  when 
her  pupils  went  over  the  sea  to  the  Great  Unknown, 
which  she,  with  touching  confidence  in  her  hearers, 
called  ‘Home,’  packed  up  her  slender  belongings  and 
sought  for  employment  afresh,  lavishing  all  her  love 
on  each  successive  batch  of  ingrates.  Only  His  Majesty 
the  King  had  repaid  her  affection  with  interest;  and 
in  his  uncomprehending  ears  she  had  told  the  tale  of 
nearly  all  her  hopes,  her  aspirations,  the  hopes  that 
were  dead,  and  the  dazzling  glories  of  her  ancestral 
home  in  ‘Calcutta,  close  to  Wellington  Square.’ 

Everything  above  the  average  was  in  the  eyes  of  His 


292 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Majesty  the  King ‘Calcutta  good.’  When  Miss  Bid- 
dums  had  crossed  his  royal  will,  he  reversed  the  epithet 
to  vex  that  estimable  lady,  and  all  things  evil  were, 
until  the  tears  of  repentance  swept  away  spite,  ‘  Cal¬ 
cutta  bad.  ’ 

Now  and  again  Miss  Biddums  begged  for  him  the 
rare  pleasure  of  a  day  in  the  society  of  the  Commis¬ 
sioner’s  child  —  the  wilful  four-year-old  Patsie,  who, 
to  the  intense  amazement  of  His  Majesty  the  King, 
was  idolised  by  her  parents.  On  thinking  the  question 
out  at  length,  by  roads  unknown  to  those  who  have 
left  childhood  behind,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Patsie  was  petted  because  she  wore  a  big  blue  sash  and 
yellow  hair. 

This  precious  discovery  he  kept  to  himself.  The 
yellow  hair  was  absolutely  beyond  his  power,  his  own 
tousled  wig  being  potato-brown ;  but  something  might 
be  done  towards  the  blue  sash.  He  tied  a  large  knot 
in  his  mosquito-curtains  in  order  to  remember  to  con¬ 
sult  Patsie  on  their  next  meeting.  She  was  the  only 
child  he  had  ever  spoken  to,  and  almost  the  only  one 
that  he  had  ever  seen.  The  little  memory  and  the 
very  large  and  ragged  knot  held  good. 

‘Patsie,  lend  me  your  blue  wiband,’  said  His  Majesty 
the  King. 

‘You’ll  bewy  it,’  said  Patsie  doubtfully,  mindful  of 
certain  atrocities  committed  on  her  doll. 

‘No,  I  won’t — -  twoofanhonour.  It’s  for  me  to 

wear.  ’ 

‘Pooh!’  said  Patsie.  ‘Boys  don’t  wear  sa-ashes. 
Zey’s  only  for  dirls.  ’ 

‘I  didn’t  know.’  The  face  of  His  Majesty  the  King 

fell. 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


293 


‘Who  wants  ribands  ?  Are  yon  playing  horses,  chick¬ 
abiddies  ?  ’  said  the  Commissioner’s  wife,  stepping  into 
the  veranda. 

‘Toby  wanted  my  sash,’  explained  Patsie. 

‘I  don’t  now,’  said  His  Majesty  the  King  hastily, 
feeling  that  with  one  of  these  terrible  ‘grown  ups  ’ 
his  poor  little  secret  would  be  shamelessly  wrenched 
from  him,  and  perhaps  —  most  burning  desecration  of 
all  —  laughed  at. 

‘I’ll  give  you  a  cracker-cap,’  said  the  Commissioner’s 
wife.  ‘Come  along  with  me,  Toby,  and  we’ll  choose 

if  ’ 

The  cracker-cap  was  a  stiff,  three-pointed  vermilion- 
and-tinsel  splendour.  His  Majesty  the  King  fitted  it 
on  his  royal  brow.  The  Commissioner’s  wife  had  a 
face  that  children  instinctively  trusted,  and  her 
action,  as  she  adjusted  the  toppling  middle  spike,  was 
tender. 

‘Will  it  do  as  well?’  stammered  His  Majesty  the 
King. 

‘As  what,  little  one?’ 

‘As  ve  wiban?  ’ 

‘Oh,  quite.  Go  and  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass.’ 

The  words  were  spoken  in  all  sincerity  and  to  help 
forward  any  absurd  ‘dressing-up  ’  amusement  that  the 
children  might  take  into  their  minds.  But  the  young 
savage  has  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  His  Majesty 
the  King  swung  the  great  cheval-glass  down,  and  saw 
his  head  crowned  with  the  staring  horror  of  a  fool’s 
cap  —  a  thing  which  his  father  would  rend  to  pieces  if 
it  ever  came  into  his  office.  He  plucked  it  off,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

‘Toby,’  said  the  Commissioner’s  wife  gravely,  ‘you 


294 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


shouldn’t  give  way  to  temper.  I  am  very  sorry  to  see 
it.  It’s  wrong.’ 

His  Majesty  the  King  sobbed  inconsolably,  and  the 
heart  of  Patsie’s  mother  was  touched.  She  drew  the 
child  on  to  her  knee.  Clearly  it  was  not  temper  alone. 

‘What  is  it,  Toby?  Won’t  you  tell  me?  Aren’t 
you  well  ?  ’ 

The  torrent  of  sobs  and  speech  met,  and  fought  for  a 
time,  with  chokings  and  gulpings  and  gasps.  Then, 
in  a  sudden  rush,  His  Majesty  the  King  was  delivered 
of  a  few  inarticulate  sounds,  followed  by  the  words  — 
4  Go  a — way  you  —  dirty  —  little  debbil !  ’ 

4  Toby !  What  do  you  mean  ?  ’ 

4 It’s  what  he’d  say.  I  know  it  is !  He  said  vat  when 
vere  was  only  a  little,  little  eggy  mess,  on  my  t-t-unic , 
and  he’d  say  it  again,  and  laugh,  if  I  went  in  wif  vat 
on  my  head.  ’ 

‘Who  would  say  that?  ’ 

‘M-m-my  Papa!  And  I  fought  if  I  had  ve  blue 
wiban,  he’d  let  me  play  in  ve  waste-paper  basket  under 
Ve  table.  ’ 

4  What  blue  riband,  childie  ?  ’ 

4  Ye  same  vat  Patsie  had  —  ve  big  blue  wiban 
w-w-wound  my  t-ttummy!  ’ 

4 What  is  it,  Toby?  There’s  something  on  your 
mind.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  and  perhaps  I  can  help.’ 

‘Isn’t  any fing, ’  sniffed  His  Majesty,  mindful  of  his 
manhood,  and  raising  his  head  from  the  motherly  bosom 
upon  which  it  was  resting.  ‘  I  only  fought  vat  you  — 
you  petted  Patsie  ’cause  she  had  ve  blue  wiban,  and  — - 
and  if  I’d  had  ve  blue  wiban  too,  m-my  Papa  w-would 
pet  me.  ’ 

The  secret  was  out,  and  His  Majesty  the  King 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


295 


sobbed  bitterly  in  spite  of  the  arms  around  him,  and 
the  murmur  of  comfort  on  his  heated  little  forehead. 

Enter  Patsie  tumultuously,  embarrassed  by  several 
lengths  of  the  Commissioner’s  pet  mahseer- rod.  ‘Turn 
along,  Toby!  Zere’s  a  chu-chu  lizard  in  ze  chick,  and 
I’ve  told  Chimo  to  watch  him  till  we  turn.  If  we  poke 
him  wiz  zis  his  tail  will  go  wiggle-wiggle  and  fall  off. 
Turn  along!  I  can’t  weach. ’ 

‘I’m  cornin’,’  said  His  Majesty  the  King,  climbing 
down  from  the  Commissioner’s  wife’s  knee  after  a  hasty 
kiss. 

Two  minutes  later,  the  chu-chu  lizard’s  tail  was 
wriggling  on  the  matting  of  the  veranda,  and  the  chil¬ 
dren  were  gravely  poking  it  with  splinters  from  the 
chick ,  to  urge  its  exhausted  vitality  into  ‘just  one 
wiggle  more,  'cause  it  doesn’t  hurt  chu-chu .’ 

The  Commissioner’s  wife  stood  in  the  doorway  and 

watched  —  ‘Poor  little  mite !  A  blue  sash - and  my 

own  precious  Patsie !  I  wonder  if  the  best  of  us,  or  we 
who  love  them  best,  ever  understood  what  goes  on  in 
their  topsy-turvy  little  heads.’ 

She  went  indoors  to  devise  a  tea  for  His  Majesty  the 
King. 

‘Their  souls  aren’t  in  their  tummies  at  that  age  in 
this  climate,’  said  the  Commissioner’s  wife,  ‘but  they 
are  not  far  off.  I  wonder  if  I  could  make  Mrs.  Austell 
understand.  Poor  little  fellow !  ’ 

With  simple  craft,  the  Commissioner’s  wife  called 
on  Mrs.  Austell  and  spoke  long  and  lovingly  about 
children ;  inquiring  specially  for  His  Majesty  the  King. 

‘He’s  with  his  governess,’  said  Mrs.  Austell,  and 
the  tone  showed  that  she  was  not  interested. 

The  Commissioner’s  wife,  unskilled  in  the  art  of 


296 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


war,  continued  her  questionings.  ‘I  don’t  know,’  said 
Mrs.  Austell.  ‘These  things  are  left  to  Miss  Biddums, 
and,  of  course,  she  does  not  ill-treat  the  child.  ’ 

The  Commissioner’s  wife  left  hastily.  The  last 
sentence  jarred  upon  her  nerves.  ‘Doesn’t  ill-treat  the 
child !  As  if  that  were  all !  I  wonder  what  Tom  would 
say  if  I  only  “didn’t  ill-treat”  Patsie!  ’ 

Thenceforward,  His  Majesty  the  King  was  an  hon¬ 
oured  guest  at  the  Commissioner’s  house,  and  the 
chosen  friend  of  Patsie,  with  whom  he  blundered  into 
as  many  scrapes  as  the  compound  and  the  servants’ 
quarters  afforded,  Patsie’s  Mamma  was  always  ready 
to  give  counsel,  help,  and  sympathy,  and,  if  need  were 
and  callers  few,  to  enter  into  their  games  with  an 
abandon  that  would  have  shocked  the  sleek-haired  sub¬ 
alterns  who  squirmed  painfully  in  their  chairs  when 
they  came  to  call  on  her  whom  they  profanely  nick¬ 
named  ‘Mother  Bunch.’ 

Yet,  in  spite  of  Patsie  and  Patsie’s  Mamma,  and  the 
love  that  these  two  lavished  upon  him,  His  Majesty  the 
King  fell  grievously  from  grace,  and  committed  no  less 
a  sin  than  that  of  theft  —  unknown,  it  is  true,  but  bur¬ 
densome. 

There  came  a  man  to  the  door  one  day,  when  His 
Majesty  was  playing  in  the  hall  and  the  bearer  had 
gone  to  dinner,  with  a  packet  for  His  Majesty’s  Mamma. 
And  he  put  it  upon  the  hall-table,  and  said  that  there 
was  no  answer,  and  departed. 

Presently,  the  pattern  of  the  dado  ceased  to  interest 
His  Majesty,  while  the  packet,  a  white,  neatly  wrapped 
one  of  fascinating  shape,  interested  him  very  much  in¬ 
deed.  His  Mamma  was  out,  so  was  Miss  Bidduim 
and  there  was  pink  string  round  the  packet.  He  greatlj 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


297 

desired  pink  string.  It  would  help  him  in  many  of  his 
little  businesses  —  the  haulage  across  the  floor  of  his 
small  cane-chair,  the  torturing  of  Chimo,  who  could 
never  understand  harness  —  and  so  forth.  If  he  took 
the  string  it  would  be  his  own,  and  nobody  would  be 
any  the  wiser.  He  certainly  could  not  pluck  up  suffi¬ 
cient  courage  to  ask  Mamma  for  it.  Wherefore,  mount¬ 
ing  upon  a  chair,  he  carefully  untied  the  string  and, 
behold,  the  stiff  white  paper  spread  out  in  four  direc¬ 
tions,  and  revealed  a  beautiful  little  leather  box  with 
gold  lines  upon  it!  He  tried  to  replace  the  string,  but 
that  was  a  failure.  So  he  opened  the  box  to  get  full 
satisfaction  for  his  iniquity,  and  saw  a  most  beautiful 
Star  that  shone  and  winked,  and  was  altogether  lovel} 
and  desirable. 

‘Vat,’  said  His  Majesty  meditatively,  ‘is  a  ’parkle 
cwown,  like  what  I  will  wear  when  I  go  to  heaven.  I 
will  wear  it  on  my  head  —  Miss  Biddums  says  so.  I 
would  like  to  wear  it  now.  I  would  like  to  play  wiv 
it.  I  will  take  it  away  and  play  wiv  it,  very  careful, 
until  Mamma  asks  for  it.  I  fink  it  was  bought  for  me 
to  play  wiv  —  same  as  my  cart.  ’ 

His  Majesty  the  King  was  arguing  against  his  con¬ 
science,  and  he  knew  it,  for  he  thought  immediately 
after:  Never  mind,  I  will  keep  it  to  play  wiv  until 
Mamma  says  where  it  is,  and  then  I  will  say  —  “  I  tookt 
it  and  I  am  sorry.”  I  will  not  hurt  it  because  it  is  a 
’parkle  cwown.  But  Miss  Biddums  will  tell  me  to  put 
it  back.  I  will  not  show  it  to  Miss  Biddums.’ 

If  Mamma  had  come  in  at  that  moment  all  would 
have  gone  well.  She  did  not,  and  His  Majesty  the 
King  stuffed  paper,  case,  and  jewel  into  the  breast  of 
his  blouse  and  marched  to  the  nursery. 


298 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘When  Mamma  asks  I  will  tell,’  was  the  salve  that 
he  laid  upon  his  conscience.  But  Mamma  never  asked, 
and  for  three  whole  days  His  Majesty  the  King  gloated 
over  his  treasure.  It  was  of  no  earthly  use  to  him,  but 
it  was  splendid,  and,  for  aught  he  knew,  something 
dropped  from  the  heavens  themselves.  Still  Mamma 
made  no  enquiries,  and  it  seemed  to  him,  in  his  furtive 
peeps,  as  though  the  shiny  stones  grew  dim.  What  was 
the  use  of  a  ’parkle  cwown  if  it  made  a  little  boy  feel 
all  bad  in  his  inside  ?  He  had  the  pink  string  as  well  as 
the  other  treasure,  but  greatly  he  wished  that  he  had 
not  gone  beyond  the  string.  It  was  his  first  experience 
of  iniquity,  and  it  pained  him  after  the  flush  of  possession 
and  secret  delight  in  the  4  ’parkle  cwown’  had  died  away 

Each  day  that  he  delayed  rendered  confession  to  the 
people  beyond  the  nursery  doors  more  impossible.  Now 
and  again  he  determined  to  put  himself  in  the  path  of 
the  beautifully  attired  lady  as  she  was  going  out,  and 
explain  that  he  and  no  one  else  was  the  possessor  of  a 
‘’parkle  cwown,’  most  beautiful  and  quite  unenquired 
for.  But  she  passed  hurriedly  to  her  carriage,  and  the 
opportunity  was  gone  before  His  Majesty  the  King 
could  draw  the  deep  breath  which  clinches  noble  re¬ 
solve.  The  dread  secret  cut  him  off  from  Miss  Bid- 
dums,  Patsie,  and  the  Commissioner’s  wife,  and- 
doublyhard  fate  — when  he  brooded  over  it  Patsie  said, 
and  told  her  mother,  that  he  was  cross. 

The  days  were  very  long  to  His  Majesty  the  King, 
and  the  nights  longer  still.  Miss  Biddums  had  in¬ 
formed  him,  more  than  once,  what  was  the  ultimate 
destiny  of  ‘fieves,’  and  when  he  passed  the  intermina¬ 
ble  mud  flanks  of  the  Central  Jail,  he  shook  in  his 
little  strapped  shoes. 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


299 


But  release  came  after  an  afternoon  spent  in  playing 
boats  by  the  edge  of  the  tank  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.  His  Majesty  the  King  went  to  tea,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  memory,  the  meal  revolted  him. 
His  nose  was  very  cold,  and  his  cheeks  were  burning 
hot.  There  was  a  weight  about  his  feet,  and  he  pressed 
his  head  several  times  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not 
swelling  as  he  sat. 

‘I  feel  vevy  funny,’  said  His  Majesty  the  King, 
rubbing  his  nose.  ‘Vere’s  a  buzz-buzz  in  my  head.’ 

He  went  to  bed  quietly.  Miss  Biddums  was  out 
and  the  bearer  undressed  him. 

The  sin  of  the  Sparkle  cwown’  was  forgotten  in  the 
acuteness  of  the  discomfort  to  which  he  roused  after  a 
leaden  sleep  of  some  hours.  He  was  thirsty,  and  the 
bearer  had  forgotten  to  leave  the  drinking-water. 
‘Miss  Biddums!  Miss  Biddums!  I’m  so  kirsty!  ’ 

No  answer.  Miss  Biddums  had  leave  to  attend  the 
wedding  of  a  Calcutta  schoolmate.  His  Majesty  the 
King  had  forgotten  that. 

‘I  want  a  dwink  of  water!  ’  he  cried,  but  his  voice 
was  dried  up  in  his  throat.  ‘I  want  a  dwink!  Vere 
is  ve  glass  ?  ’ 

He  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  round.  There  was  a 
murmur  of  voices  from  the  other  side  of  the  nursery 
door.  It  was  better  to  face  the  terrible  unknown  than 
to  choke  in  the  dark.  He  slipped  out  of  bed,  but  his 
feet  were  strangely  wilful,  and  he  reeled  once  or  twice. 
Then  he  pushed  the  door  open  and  staggered  —  a  puffed 
and  purple-faced  little  figure  —  into  the  brilliant  light 
of  the  dining-room  full  of  pretty  ladies. 

‘I’m  vevy  hot!  I’m  vevy  uncomfitivle, ’  moaned 
His  Majesty  the  King,  clinging  to  the  portiere,  ‘and 


300 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


vere’s  no  water  in  ve  glass,  and  I’m  so  kirsty.  Give 
me  a  dwink  of  water*’ 

An  apparition  in  black_aJAdwhite  —  His  Majesty  the 
King  could  hardly  see  distinctly  —  lifted  him  up  to  the 
level  of  the  table,  and  felt  his  wrists  and  forehead* 
The  water  came,  and  he  drank  deeply,  his  teeth  chatter¬ 
ing  against  the  edge  of  the  tumbler.  Then  every  one 
seemed  to  go  away  —  every  one  except  the  huge  man 
in  black  and  white,  who  carried  him  back  to  his  bed , 
the  mother  and  father  following.  And  the  sin  of  the 
‘’parkle  cwown  ’  rushed  back  and  took  possession  of 
the  terrified  soul. 

‘I’m  a  fief!  ’  he  gasped.  ‘I  want  to  tell  Miss  Rid- 
dums  vat  I’m  a  fief.  Vere  is  Miss  Biddums  ?  ’ 

Miss  Biddums  had  come  and  was  bending  over  him. 
‘I’m  a  fief,’  he  whispered.  ‘A  fief  — like  ve  men  in 
the  pwison.  But  I’ll  tell  now.  I  tookt  —  I  tookt  ve 
’parkle  cwown  when  the  man  that  came  left  it  in  ve 
hall.  I  bwoke  ve  paper  and  ve  little  bwown  box,  and 
it  looked  shiny,  and  I  tookt  it  to  play  wif,  and  I  was 
afwaid.  It’s  in  ve  dooly-box  at  ve  bottom.  No  one 
never  asked  for  it,  but  I  was  afwaid.  Oh,  go  an  get 
ve  dooly-box!  ’. 

Miss  Biddums  obediently  stooped  to  the  lowest  shelf 
of  the  almirah  and  unearthed  the  big  paper  box  in  which 
His  Majesty  the  King  kept  his  dearest  possessions. 
Under  the  tin  soldiers,  and  a  layer  of  mud  pellets  for 
a  pellet-bow,  winked  and  blazed  a  diamond  star,  wrapped 
roughly  in  a  half-sheet  of  notepaper  whereon  were  a 
few  words. 

Somebody  wps  crying  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  u 
man’s  hand  touched  the  forehead  of  His  Majesty  tin' 
Kin  p1-  who  grasped  the  packet  and  spread  it  on  the  bed. 


HT3  MAJESTY  THE  KING 


301 


‘Vat  is  ve  ’parkle  cwown,’  he  said,  and  wept  bitterly, 
for  now  that  he  had  made  restitution  he  would  fain  have 
kept  the  shining  splendour  with  him. 

‘It  concerns  you  too,’  said  a  voice  at  the  head  of  the 
bed.  ‘Read  the  note.  This  is  not  the  time  to  keep 
back  anything.  ’ 

The  note  was  curt,  very  much  to  the  point,  and  signed 
by  a  single  initial.  'If  you  wear  this  to-morrow  night 
1  shall  know  what  to  expect .  ’  The  date  was  three  weeks 

old. 

A  whisper  followed,  and  the  deeper  voice  returned : 
‘And  you  drifted  as  far  apart  as  that!  I  think  it  makes 
us  quits  now,  doesn’t  it?  Oh,  can’t  we  drop  this  folly 
nice  and  for  all?  Is  it  worth  it,  darling?  5 

‘Kiss  me  too,’  said  His  Majesty  the  King  dreamily. 
‘You  isn’t  vevy  angwy,  is  you?  ’ 

The  fever  burned  itself  out,  and  His  Majesty  the 
King  slept. 

When  he  waked,  it  was  in  a  new  world  —  peopled  by 
his  father  and  mother  as  well  as  Miss  Biddums :  and 
there  was  much  love  in  that  world  and  no  morsel  of 
fear,  and  more  petting  than  was  good  for  several  little 
boys.  His  Majesty  the  King  was  too  young  to  moral¬ 
ise  on  the  uncertainty  of  things  human,  or  he  would 
have  been  impressed  with  the  singular  advantages  of 
crime  — -  ay,  black  sin.  Behold,  he  had  stolen  tlm 
‘’parkle  cwown,’  and  his  reward  was  Love,  and  the 
right  to  play  in  the  waste-paper  basket  under  the  table 
‘for  always.’ 

********* 

He  trotted  over  to  spend  an  afternoon  with  Patsie, 
and  the  Commissioner’s  wife  would  have  kissed  him. 
‘No,  not  vere, ’  said  His  Majesty  the  King,  with  superb 


302 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


insolence,  fencing  one  corner  of  his  mouth  with  his 
hand.  ‘Vat’s  my  Mamma’s  place  —  vere  she  kisses  me.' 

‘Oh! ’said  the  Commissioner’s  wife  briefly.  Then 
to  herself:  ‘Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  glad  for  his 
sake.  Children  are  selfish  little  grubs  and  —  I’ve  got 
my  PatsieP 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT 


In  the  Army  List  they  still  stand  as  ‘  The  Fore  and 
Fit  Princess  Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Anspach’s  Mer- 
ther-Tydfilshire  Own  Royal  Loyal  Light  Infantry, 
Regimental  District  829A,’  bnt  the  Army  through  all 
its  barracks  and  canteens  knows  them  now  as  the  4  F ore 
and  Aft.’  They  may  in  time  do  something  that  shall 
make  their  new  title  honourable,  but  at  present  they 
are  bitterly  ashamed,  and  the  man  who  calls  them 
‘  Fore  and  Aft  ’  does  so  at  the  risk  of  the  head  which  is 
on  his  shoulders. 

Two  words  breathed  into  the  stables  of  a  certain 
Cavalry  Regiment  will  bring  the  men  out  into  the 
streets  with  belts  and  mops  and  bad  language ;  but  a 
whisper  of  4  Fore  and  Aft  ’  will  bring  out  this  regiment 
with  rifles. 

Their  one  excuse  is  that  they  came  again  and  did  their 
best  to  finish  the  job  in  style.  But  for  a  time  all  their 
world  knows  that  they  were  openly  beaten,  whipped, 
dumb- cowed,  shaking  and  afraid.  The  men  know  it ; 
their  officers  know  it ;  the  Horse  Guards  know  it,  and 
when  the  next  war  comes  the  enemy  will  know  it  also. 
There  are  two  or  three  regiments  of  the  Line  that 
have  a  black  mark  against  their  names  which  they  will 
then  wipe  out ;  and  it  will  be  excessively  inconvenient 
for  the  troops  upon  whom  they  do  their  wiping. 

The  courage  of  the  British  soldier  is  officially  sup- 

303 


304 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


posed  to  be  above  proof,  and,  as  a  general  rule,  it  is  so. 
The  exceptions  are  decently  shovelled  out  of  sight,  only 
to  be  referred  to  in  the  freshest  of  unguarded  talk  that 
occasionally  swamps  a  Mess-table  at  midnight.  Then 
one  hears  strange  and  horrible  stories  of  men  not  fol¬ 
lowing  their  officers,  of  orders  being  given  by  those  who 
had  no  right  to  give  them,  and  of  disgrace  that,  but  for 
the  standing  luck  of  the  British  Army,  might  have  ended 
in  brilliant  disaster.  These  are  unpleasant  stories  to 
listen  to,  and  the  Messes  tell  them  under  their  breath, 
sitting  by  the  big  wood  fires,  and  the  young  officer  bows 
his  head  and  thinks  to  himself,  please  God,  his  men  shall 
never  behave  unhandily. 

The  British  soldier  is  not  altogether  to  be  blamed 
for  occasional  lapses;  but  this  verdict  he  should  not  know. 
A  moderately  intelligent  General  will  waste  six  months 
in  mastering  the  craft  of  the  particular  war  that  he 
may  be  waging;  a  Colonel  may  utterly  misunderstand 
the  capacity  of  his  regiment  for  three  months  after  it 
has  taken  the  field,  and  even  a  Company  Commander 
may  err  and  be  deceived  as  to  the  temper  and  tempera¬ 
ment  of  his  own  handful:  wherefore  the  soldier,  and 
the  soldier  of  to-day  more  particularly,  should  not  be 
blamed  for  falling  back.  He  should  be  shot  or  hanged 
afterwards  —  to  encourage  the  others;  but  he  should 
not  be  vilified  in  newspapers,  for  that  is  want  of  tact 
and  waste  of  space. 

He  has,  let  us  say,  been  in  the  service  of  the  Empress 
for,  perhaps,  four  years.  He  will  leave  in  another  two 
years.  He  has  no  inherited  morals,  and  four  years  are 
not  sufficient  to  drive  toughness  into  his  fibre,  or  to 
teach  him  how  holy  a  thing  is  his  Regiment.  He  wants 
to  drink,  he  wants  to  enjoy  himself  —  in  India  he  wants 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  305 

to  save  money  —  and  he  does  not  in  the  least  like  get-  • 
ting  hurt.  He  has  received  just  sufficient  education  to 
make  him  understand  half  the  purport  of  the  orders  he 
receives,  and  to  speculate  on  the  nature  of  clean,  incised, 
and  shattering  wounds.  Thus,  if  he  is  told  to  deploy 
under  fire  preparatory  to  an  attack,  he  knows  that  he 
runs  a  very  great  risk  of  being  killed  while  he  is  de¬ 
ploying,  and  suspects  that  he  is  being  thrown  away  to 
gain  ten  minutes’  time.  He  may  either  deploy  with 
desperate  swiftness,  or  he  may  shuffle,  or  bunch,  or 
break,  according  to  the  discipline  under  which  he  has 
lain  for  four  years. 

Armed  with  imperfect  knowledge,  cursed  with  the 
rudiments  of  an  imagination,  hampered  by  the  intense 
selfishness  of  the  lower  classes,  and  unsupported  by  any 
regimental  associations,  this  young  man  is  suddenly  in¬ 
troduced  to  an  enemy  who  in  eastern  lands  is  always 
ttgly,  generally  tall  and  hairy,  and  frequently  noisy. 

If  he  looks  to  the  right  and  the  left  and  sees  old  soldiers 
—  men  of  twelve  years’  service,  who,  he  knows,  know 
what  they  are  about  —  taking  a  charge,  rush,  or  demon¬ 
stration  without  embarrassment,  he  is  consoled  and 
applies  his  shoulder  to  the  butt  of  his  rifle  with  a  stout 
heart.  His  peace  is  the  greater  if  he  hears  a  senior, 
who  has  taught  him  his  soldiering  and  broken  his  head 
on  occasion,  whispering  :  4  They’ll  shout  and  carry  on 
like  this  for  five  minutes.  Then  they’ll  rush  in,  and 
then  we’ve  got  ’em  by  the  short  hairs !  ’ 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  sees  only  men  of  his  own 
term  of  service,  turning  white  and  playing  with  their 
triggers  and  saying  t  •  What  the  Hell’s  up  now  ?  ’  while 
the  Company  Commanders  are  sweating  mt,,  their 
sword-hilts  and  shouting :  4  Front-rank,  fix  bayonets 
y 


306 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Steady  there  —-steady  !  Sight  for  three  hundred  —  no* 
for  five !  Lie  down,  all !  Steady  !  Front-rank  kneel! 
and  so  forth,  he  becomes  unhappy,  and  grows  acutely 
miserable  when  he  hears  a  comrade  turn  over  with  the 
rattle  of  fire-irons  falling  into  the  fender,  and  the  grunt 
of  a  pole-axed  ox.  If  he  can  be  moved  about  a  little 
and  allowed  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  own  fire  on  the 
enemy  he  feels  merrier,  and  may  be  then  worked  up  to 
the  blind  passion  of  fighting,  which  is,  contrary  to  gem 
eral  belief,  controlled  by  a  chilly  Devil  and  shakes  men 
like  ague.  If  he  is  not  moved  about,  and  begins  to  feel 
cold  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  and  in  that  crisis  is  badly 
mauled  and  hears  orders  that  were  never  given,  he  will 
break,  and  he  will  break  badly  ,  and  of  all  things  under 
the  light  of  the  Sun  there  is  nothing  more  terrible  than 
a  broken  British  regiment.  When  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst  and  the  panic  is  really  epidemic,  the  men 
must  be  e’en  let  go,  and  the  Company  Commanders  had 
better  escape  to  the  enemy  and  stay  there  for  safety’s 
sake.  If  they  can  be  made  to  come  again  they  are 
not  pleasant  men  to  meet ;  because  they  will  not  break 
twice. 

About  thirty  years  from  this  date,  when  we  have 
succeeded  in  half-educating  everything  that  wears 
trousers,  our  Army  will  be  a  beautifully  unreliable 
machine.  It  will  know  too  much  and  it  will  do  too 
little.  Later  still,  when  all  men  are  at  the  mental  level 
of  the  officer  of  to-day,  it  will  sweep  the  earth.  Speak¬ 
ing  roughly,  you  must  employ  either  blackguards  or 
gentlemen,  or,  best  of  all,  blackguards  commanded  by 
gentlemen,  to  do  butcher’s  work  with  efficiency  and 
despatch.  The  ideal  soldier  should,  of  course,  think 
for  himself  ■ — the  Pocket-book  says  so.  Unfortunately, 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  30? 

to  attain  this  virtue,  lie  has  to  pass  through  the  phase 
of  thinking  of  himself,  and  that  is  misdirected  genius. 
A  blackguard  may  be  slow  to  think  for  himself,  but  he 
is  genuinely  anxious  to  kill,  and  a  little  punishment 
teaches  him  how  to  guard  his  own  skin  and  perforate 
another’s  A  powerfully  prayerful  Highland  Regi¬ 
ment,  officered  by  rank  Presbyterians,  is,  perhaps,  one 
degree  more  terrible  in  action  than  a  hard-bitten  thou¬ 
sand  of  irresponsible  Irish  ruffians  led  by  most  improper 
young  unbelievers.  But  these  things  prove  the  rule  — ■ 
which  is  that  the  midway  men  are  not  to  be  trusted 
alone.  They  have  ideas  about  the  value  of  life  and  an 
upbringing  that  has  not  taught  them  to  go  on  and  take 
the  chances.  They  are  carefully  unprovided  with  a 
backing  of  comrades  who  have  been  shot  over,  and  until 
that  backing  is  re-introduced,  as  a  great  many  Regi¬ 
mental  Commanders  intend  it  shall  be,  they  are  more 
liable  to  disgrace  themselves  than  the  size  of  the  Empire 
or  the  dignity  of  the  Army  allows.  Their  officers  are 
as  good  as  good  can  be,  because  their  training  begins 
early,  and  God  has  arranged  that  a  clean-run  youth  of 
the  British  middle  classes  shall,  in  the  matter  of  back¬ 
bone,  brains,  and  bowels,  surpass  all  other  youths,  F or 
this  reason  a  child  of  eighteen  will  stand  up,  doing 
nothing,  with  a  tin  sword  in  his  hand  and  joy  in  his 
heart  until  he  is  dropped.  If  he  dies,  he  dies  like  a 
gentleman  If  he  lives,  he  writes  Home  that  he  has 
been  4  potted,’  4  sniped,’  4  chipped,’  or  4  cut  over,’  and 
sits  down  to  besiege  Government  for  a  wound-gratuity 
until  the  next  little  war  breaks  out,  when  he  perjures 
himself  before  a  Medical  Board,  blarneys  his  Colonel, 
burns  incense  round  his  Adjutant,  and  is  allowed  to  go 
to  the  Front  once  more. 


308 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Which  homily  brings  me  directly  to  a  brace  of  the 
most  finished  little  fiends  that  ever  banged  drum  or 
tootled  fife  in  the  Band  of  a  British  Regiment.  They 
ended  their  sinful  career  by  open  and  flagrant  mutiny 
and  were  shot  for  it.  Their  names  were  Jakin  and 
Lew —  Piggy  Lew  —  and  they  were  bold,  bad  drummer- 
boys,  both  of  them  frequently  birched  by  the  Drum- 
Major  of  the  Fore  and  Aft. 

Jakin  was  a  stunted  child  of  fourteen,  and  Lew  was 
about  the  same  age.  When  not  looked  after,  they 
smoked  and  drank.  They  swore  habitually  after  the 
manner  of  the  Barrack-room,  which  is  cold-sweariner 
and  comes  from  between  clinched  teeth,  and  they 
fought  religiously  once  a  week.  Jakin  had  sprung 
from  some  London  gutter  and  may  or  may  not  have 
passed  through  Dr.  Barnardo’s  hands  ere  he  arrived  at 
the  dignity  of  drummer-boy.  Lew  could  remember 
nothing  except  the  Regiment  and  the  delight  of  listening 
to  the  Band  from  his  earliest  years.  He  hid  somewhere 
in  his  grimy  little  soul  a  genuine  love  for  music,  and 
was  most  mistakenly  furnished  with  the  head  of  a 
cherub:  insomuch  that  beautiful  ladies  who  watched 
the  Regiment  in  church  were  wont  to  speak  of  him  as 
a ‘darling.’  They  never  heard  his  vitriolic  comments 
on  their  manners  and  morals,  as  he  walked  back  to 
barracks  with  the  Band  and  matured  fresh  causes  of 
offence  against  Jakin. 

The  other  drummer-boys  hated  both  lads  on  account 
of  their  illogical  conduct.  Jakin  might  be  pounding 
Lew,  or  Lew  might  be  rubbing  Jakin’s  head  in  the 
dirt,  but  any  attempt  at  aggression  on  the  part  of  an 
outsider  was  met  by  the  combined  forces  of  Lew  and 
Jakin;  and  the  consequences  were  painful.  The  boys 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THiii  FORE  AND  AFT 


309 


were  the  Ishmaels  of  the  corps,  but  wealthy  Ishmaels, 
for  they  sold  battles  in  alternate  weeks  for  the  sport  of 
the  barracks  when  they  were  not  pitted  against  other 
boys;  and  thus  amassed  money . 

On  this  particular  day  there  was  dissension  in  the 
camp.  They  had  just  been  convicted  afresh  of  smok¬ 
ing,  which  is  bad  for  little  boys  who  use  plug-tobacco, 
and  Lew’s  contention  was  that  Jakin  had  ‘stunk  so 
’orrid  bad  from  keepin’  the  pipe  in  pocket,’  that  he  and 
he  alone  was  responsible  for  the  birching  they  were  both 

tingling  under. 

‘I  tell  you  I  ’id  the  pipe  back  o’  barracks,’  said  Jakin 
pacifically. 

‘You’re  a  bloomin’  liar,’  said  Lew  without  heat. 

‘You’re  a  bloomin’  little  barstard,  said  Jakin,  strong 
in  the  knowledge  that  his  own  ancestry  was  unknown. 

Now  there  is  one  word  in  the  extended  vocabulary 
of  barrack-room  abuse  that  cannot  pass  without  com¬ 
ment.  You  may  call  a  man  a  thief  and  risk  nothing. 
You  may  even  call  him  a  coward  without  finding  more 
than  a  boot  whiz  past  your  ear,  but  you  must  not  call  a 
man  a  bastard  unless  you  are  prepared  to  prove  it  on 
his  front  teeth. 

‘You  might  ha’  kep’  that  till  I  wasn’t  so  sore,’  said 
Lew  sorrowfully,  dodging  round  Jakin’s  guard. 

Til  make  you  sorer,’  said  Jakin  genially,  and  got 
home  on  Lew’s  alabaster  forehead.  All  would  have 
gone  well  and  this  story,  as  the  books  say,  would  never 
have  been  written,  had  not  his  evil  fate  prompted  the 
Bazar-Sergeant’s  son,  a  long,  employless  man  of  five- 
and-twenty,  to  put  in  an  appearance  after  the  first 
round.  He  was  eternally  in  need  of  money,  and  knew 
that  the  boys  had  silver. 


310 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘Fighting  again,’  said  lie.  ‘I’ll  report  you  to  my 
father,  and  he’ll  report  you  to  the  Colour-Sergeant.’ 

‘  What’s  that  to  you?  ’  said  Jakin  with  an  unpleasant 
dilation  of  the  nostrils. 

‘Oh!  nothing  to  me.  You’ll  get  into  trouble,  and 
you’ve  been  up  too  often  to  afford  that.’ 

‘  What  the  Hell  do  you  know  about  what  we’ve 
done  ?  ’  asked  Lew  the  Seraph.  6  You  aren’t  in  the 
Army,  you  lousy,  cadging  civilian.  ’ 

He  closed  in  on  the  man’s  left  flank. 

‘Jes’  ’cause  you  find  two  gentlemen  settlin’  their 
differences  with  their  fistes  you  stick  in  your  ugly  nose 
where  you  aren’t  wanted.  Run  ’ome  to  your  ’arf-caste 
slut  of  a  Ma  — or  we’ll  give  you  what-for,’  said  Jakin. 

The  man  attempted  reprisals  by  knocking  the  boys’ 
heads  together.  The  scheme  would  have  succeeded 
had  not  J akin  punched  him  vehemently  in  the  stomach, 
or  had  Lew  refrained  from  kicking  his  shins.  They 
fought  together,  bleeding  and  breathless,  for  half  an 
hour,  and,  after  heavy  punishment,  triumphantly 
pulled  down  their  opponent  as  terriers  pull  down  a 
jackal. 

‘Now,’ gasped  Jakin,  ‘I’ll  give  you  what-for.’  He 
proceeded  to  pound  the  man’s  features  while  Lew 
stamped  on  the  outlying  portions  of  his  anatomy. 
Chivalry  is  not  a  strong  point  in  the  composition  of 
the  average  drummer-boy.  He  fights,  as  do  his  betters, 
to  make  his  mark. 

Ghastly  was  the  ruin  that  escaped,  and  awful  was  the 
wrath  of  the  Bazar-Sergeant.  Awful  too  was  the  scene 
in  Orderly-room  when  the  two  reprobates  appeared  to 
answer  the  charge  of  half -murdering  a  ‘civilian.’  The 
Bazar-Sergeant  thirsted  for  a  criminal  action,  and  his 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  ATT  311 

son  lied.  The  boys  stood  to  attention  while  the  black 
clouds  of  evidence  accumulated. 

‘  You  little  devils  are  more  trouble  than  the  rest  of 
the  Regiment  put  together,’  said  the  Colonel  angrily. 

‘  One  might  as  well  admonish  thistledown,  and  I  can’t 
well  put  you  in  cells  or  under  stoppages.  You  must  be 
birched  again.’ 

‘Beg  y’  pardon,  Sir.  Can’t  we  say  nothin’  in  our 
own  defence,  Sir  ?  ’  shrilled  J akin. 

‘  Hey !  What  ?  Are  you  going  to  argue  with  me  ?  ’ 
said  the  Colonel. 

‘No,  Sir,’  said  Lew.  ‘  But  if  a  man  come  to  you,  Sir, 
and  said  he  was  going  to  report  you,  Sir,  for  ’aving  a 
bit  of  a  turn-up  with  a  friend,  Sir,  an’  wanted  to  get 
money  out  o’  you ,  Sir  — — -  ’ 

The  Orderly-room  exploded  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 
‘Well?’  said  the  Colonel. 

‘That  was  what  that  measly  jarnwar  there  did,  Sir, 
and  ’e’d  ’a’  done  it,  Sir,  if  we  ’adn’t  prevented  ’im.  We 
didn’t  ’  it  ’  im  much,  Sir.  ’E  ’adn’t  no  manner  o’  right 
to  interfere  with  us,  Sir.  I  don’t  mind  bein’  birched  by 
the  Drum-Major,  Sir,  nor  yet  reported  by  any  Corp’ral, 
but  I’m  —  but  I  don’t  think  it’s  fair,  Sir,  for  a  civilian 
to  come  an’  talk  over  a  man  in  the  Army.’ 

A  second  shout  of  laughter  shook  the  Orderly-room, 
but  the  Colonel  was  grave. 

‘  What  sort  of  characters  have  these  boys  ?  ’  he  asked 
of  the  Regimental  Sergeant-Major. 

‘Accordin’  to  the  Bandmaster,  Sir,’  returned  that 
fevered  official  —  the  only  soul  in  the  Regiment  whom 
the  boys  feared  —  ‘they  do  everything  but  lie,  Sir.’ 

‘  Is  it  like  we’d  go  for  that  man  for  fun,  Sir  ?  ’  said 
Lew,  pointing  to  the  plaintiff. 


312 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘Oh,  admonished,  —  admonished!’  said  the  Colonel 
testily,  and  when  the  boys  had  gone  he  read  the  Bazar- 
Sergeant’s  son  a  lecture  on  the  sin  of  unprofitable  med¬ 
dling,  and  gave  orders  that  the  Bandmaster  should  keep 
the  Drums  in  better  discipline. 

‘  If  either  of  you  come  to  practice  again  with  so 
much  as  a  scratch  on  your  two  ugly  little  faces,’  thun¬ 
dered  the  Bandmaster,  4  I’ll  tell  the  Drum-Major  to 
take  the  skin  off  your  backs.  Understand  that,  you 
young  devils.’ 

Then  he  repented  of  his  speech  for  just  the  length  of 
time  that  Lew,  looking  like  a  seraph  in  red  worsted 
embellishments,  took  the  place  of  one  of  the  trumpets 
—  in  hospital  —  and  rendered  the  echo  of  a  battle- 
piece.  Lew  certainly  was  a  musician,  and  had  often 
in  his  more  exalted  moments  expressed  a  yearning  to 
master  every  instrument  of  the  Band. 

4  There’s  nothing  to  prevent  your  becoming  a  Band¬ 
master,  Lew,’  said  the  Bandmaster,  who  had  composed 
waltzes  of  his  own,  and  worked  day  and  night  in  the 
interests  of  the  Band. 

4  What  did  he  say?  ’  demanded  Jakin  after  practice. 

4  ’Said  I  might  be  a  bloomin’  Bandmaster,  an’  be 
asked  in  to  ’ave  a  glass  o’  sherry- wine  on  Mess-nights.’ 

4  Ho  !  ’Said  you  might  be  a  bloomin’  non-combatant, 
did  ’e !  That’s  just  about  wot  ’e  would  say.  When 
I’ve  put  in  my  boy’s  service  —  it’s  a  bloomin’  shame 
that  doesn’t  count  for  pension  —  I’ll  take  on  as  a  privit. 
Then  I’ll  be  a  Lance  in  a  year  — knowin’  what  I  know 
about  the  ins  an’  outs  o’  things.  In  three  years  I’ll  be 
a  bloomin’  Sergeant.  I  won’t  marry  then,  not  I !  I’ll 
’old  on  and  learn  the  orf’cers’  ways  an’  apply  for 
exchange  into  a  reg’ment  that  doesn’t  know  all  about 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT 


313 


me.  Then  I’ll  be  a  bloomin’  orf’cer.  Then  I’ll  ask 
you  to  ’ave  a  glass  o’  sherry- wine,  Mister  Lew,  an’ 
you’ll  bloomin’  well  ’aye  to  stay  in  the  hanty-room 
while  the  Mess-Sergeant  brings  it  to  your  dirty  ’ands.’ 

‘’S’pose  I’m  going  to  be  a  Bandmaster?  Not  I, 
quite.  I’ll  be  a  orf’cer  too.  There’s  nothin’  like 
takin’  to  a  thing  an’  stickin’  to  it,  the  Schoolmaster 
says.  The  Reg’ment  don’t  go  ’ome  for  another  seven 
years.  I’ll  be  a  Lance  then  or  near  to.’ 

Thus  the  boys  discussed  their  futures,  and  conducted 
themselves  piously  for  a  week.  That  is  to  say,  Lew 
started  a  flirtation  with  the  Colour-Sergeant’s  daughter, 
aged  thirteen  — 4  not,’  as  he  explained  to  J akin,  4  with 
any  intention  o’  matrimony,  but  by  way  o’  keepin'  my 
’and  in.’  And  the  black-haired  Cris  Deliglian  enjoyed 
that  flirtation  more  than  previous  ones,  and  the  other 
drummer-boys  raged  furiously  together,  and  Jakin 
preached  sermons  on  the  dangers  of  ‘bein’  tangled 
along  o’  petticoats.’ 

But  neither  love  nor  virtue  would  have  held  Lew 
long  in  the  paths  of  propriety  had  not  the  rumour  gone 
abroad  that  the  Regiment  was  to  be  sent  on  active  ser¬ 
vice,  to  take  part  in  a  war  which,  for  the  sake  of 
brevity,  we  will  call  4  The  War  of  the  Lost  Tribes.’ 

The  barracks  had  the  rumour  almost  before  the 
Mess-room,  and  of  all  the  nine  hundred  men  in  bar¬ 
racks,  not  ten  had  seen  a  shot  fired  in  anger.  The 
Colonel  had,  twenty  years  ago,  assisted  at  a  Frontier 
expedition;  one  of  the  Majors  had  seen  service  at  the 
Cape ;  a  confirmed  deserter  in  E  Company  had  helped 
to  clear  streets  in  Ireland ;  but  that  was  alL  rI  lie 
Regiment  had  been  put  by  for  many  years.  The  over¬ 
whelming  mass  of  its  rank  and  file  had  from  three  to 


314 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


four  years’  service ;  the  non-commissioned  officers  were 
under  thirty  years  old ;  and  men  and  sergeants  alike 
had  forgotten  to  speak  of  the  stories  written  in  brief 
upon  the  Colours  —  the  New  Colours  that  had  been 
formally  blessed  by  an  Archbishop  in  England  ere  the 
Regiment  came  away. 

They  wanted  to  go  to  the  Front  —  they  were  enthu¬ 
siastically  anxious  to  go  —  but  they  had  no  knowledge 
of  what  war  meant,  and  there  was  none  to  tell  them. 
They  were  an  educated  regiment,  the  percentage  of 
school-certificates  in  their  ranks  was  high,  and  most  of 
the  men  could  do  more  than  read  and  write.  They 
had  been  recruited  in  loyal  observance  of  the  territorial 
idea ;  but  they  themselves  had  no  notion  of  that  idea. 
They  were  made  up  of  drafts  from  an  over-populated 
manufacturing  district.  The  system  had  put  flesh  and 
muscle  upon  their  small  bones,  but  it  could  not  put 
heart  into  the  sons  of  those  who  for  generations  had 
done  overmuch  work  for  overscanty  pay,  had  sweated 
in  drying-rooms,  stooped  over  looms,  coughed  among 
white-lead,  and  shivered  on  lime-barges.  The  men  had 
found  food  and  rest  in  the  Army,  and  now  they  were 
going  to  fight  ‘  niggers  ’  —  people  who  ran  away 
if  you  shook  a  stick  at  them.  Wherefore  they 
cheered  lustily  when  the  rumour  ran,  and  the  shrewd, 
clerkly  non-commissioned  officers  speculated  on  the 
chances  of  batta  and  of  saving  their  pay.  At  Head¬ 
quarters,  men  said :  4  The  Fore  and  Fit  have  never 
been  under  fire  within  the  last  generation.  Let  us, 
therefore,  break  them  in  easily  by  setting  them  to 
guard  lines  of  communication.’  And  this  would  have 
been  done  but  for  the  fact  that  British  Regiments  were 
wanted  ■ —  badly  wanted  —  at  the  Front,  and  there 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  315 

were  doubtful  Native  Regiments  that  could  fill  the 
minor  duties.  ‘Brigade  ’em  with  two  strong  Regi¬ 
ments,’  said  Headquarters.  ‘They  may  be  knocked 
about  a  bit,  but  they’ll  learn  their  business  before  they 
come  through.  Nothing  like  a  night-alarm  and  a  little 
cutting-up  of  stragglers  to  make  a  Regiment  smart  in 
the  field.  Wait  till  they’ve  had  half  a  dozen  sentries’ 
throats  cut.’ 

The  Colonel  wrote  with  delight  that  the  temper  of 
his  men  was  excellent,  that  the  Regiment  was  all  that 
could  be  wished,  and  as  sound  as  a  bell.  The  Majors 
smiled  with  a  sober  joy,  and  the  subalterns  waltzed  in 
pairs  down  the  Mess-room  after  dinner,  and  nearly  shot 
themselves  at  revolver-practice.  But  there  was  con¬ 
sternation  in  the  hearts  of  Jakin  and  Lew.  What  was 
to  be  done  with  the  Drums?  Would  the  Band  go  to 
the  Front  ?  How  many  of  the  Drums  would  accompany 
the  Regiment? 

They  took  council  together,  sitting  in  a  tree  and 
smoking. 

‘It’s  more  than  a  bloomin’  toss-up  they’ll  leave  us 
be’ind  at  the  Depot  with  the  women.  You’ll  like  that,’ 
said  Jakin  sarcastically. 

‘’Cause  o’  Cris,  y’  mean?  Wot’s  a  woman,  or  a  ’ole 
bloomin’  depot  o’  women,  ’longside  o  the  chanst  of  neld- 
service?  You  know  I’m  as  keen  on  goin’  as  you,’  said 
Lew. 

‘’Wish  I  was  a  bloomin’  bugler,’  said  Jakin  sadly. 
‘  They’ll  take  Tom  Kidd  along,  that  I  can  plaster  a  wall 
with,  an’  like  as  not  they  won’t  take  us. 

‘  Then  let’s  go  an’  make  Tom  Kidd  so  bloomin’  sick 
’e  can’t  bugle  no  more.  You  ’old  ’is  ’ands  an’  I’ll  kick 
him,’  said  Lew,  wriggling  on  the  branch. 


316 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


“That  ain’t  no  good  neither.  We  ain’t  the  sort  o * 
characters  to  presoon  on  our  rep’tations- — they’re  bad. 
If  they  have  the  Band  at  the  Depot  we  don’t  go,  and 
no  error  there.  If  they  take  the  Band  we  may  get  cast 
for  medical  unfitness.  Are  you  medical  fit,  Piggy  ?  * 
said  Jakin,  digging  Lew  in  the  ribs  with  force. 

4  Yus,’  said  Lew  with  an  oath.  ‘The  Doctor  says 
your  ’eart’s  weak  through  smokin’  on  an  empty  stum- 
mick.  Throw  a  chest  an’  I’ll  try  yer.’ 

Jakin  threw  out  his  chest,  which  Lew  smote  with  all 
his  might.  Jakin  turned  very  pale,  gasped,  crowed, 
screwed  up  his  eyes  and  said —  ‘  That’s  all  right.’ 

‘You’ll  do,’  said  Lew.  ‘I’ve  ’eard  o’  men  dying 
when  you  ’it  ’em  fair  on  the  breastbone.’ 

‘  Don’t  bring  us  no  nearer  goin’,  though,’  said  Jakin. 
‘  Do  you  know  where  we’re  ordered?  ’ 

‘  Gawd  knows,  an’  ’E  won’t  split  on  a  pal.  Some- 
wheres  up  to  the  Front  to  kill  Paythans  —  hairy  big 
beggars  that  turn  you  inside  out  if  they  get  ’old  ’o  you. 
They  say  their  women  are  good-looking,  too.’ 

‘Any  loot?  ’  asked  the  abandoned  Jakin. 

‘  Not  a  bloomin’  anna,  they  say,  unless  you  dig  up  the 
ground  an’  see  what  the  niggers  ’aye  ’id.  They’re  a 
poor  lot.’  Jakin  stood  upright  on  the  branch  and  gazed 
across  the  plain. 

‘  Lew,’  said  he,  ‘  there’s  tne  Oolonel  coming.  'Colo* 
nel’s  a  good  old  beggar.  Let’s  go  an’  talk  to  ’im.’ 

Lew  nearly  fell  out  of  the  tree  at  the  audacity  of  the 
suggestion.  Like  Jakin  he  feared  not  God,  neither 
regarded  he  Man,  but  there  are  limits  even  to  t1  e 
audacity  of  a  drummer-boy,  and  to  speak  to  a  Colo¬ 
nel  was - 


But  Jakin  had  slid  down  the  trunk  and  doubled  ill 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  317 

the  direction  of  the  Colonel.  That  officer  was  walking 
wrapped  in  thought  and  visions  of  a  C.B. — yes,  even 
a  K.C.B.,  for  had  he  not  at  command  one  of  the  best 
Regiments  of  the  Line  —  the  Fore  and  Fit?  And  he 
was  aware  of  two  small  boys  charging  down  upon  him. 
Once  before  it  had  been  solemnly  reported  to  him  that 
4  the  Drums  were  in  a  state  of  mutiny,’  Jakin  and  Lew 
being  the  ringleaders.  This  looked  like  an  organised 
conspiracy. 

The  boys  halted  at  twenty  yards,  walked  to  the  regu¬ 
lation  four  paces,  and  sainted  together,  each  as  well  set¬ 
up  as  a  ramrod  and  little  taller. 

The  Colonel  was  in  a  genial  mood  ;  the  boys  appeared 
very  forlorn  and  unprotected  on  the  desolate  plain,  and 
one  of  them  was  handsome. 

‘Well!’  said  the  Colonel,  recognising  them.  ‘Are 
you  going  to  pull  me  down  in  the  open?  I’m  sure 
I  never  interfere  with  yon,  even  though’ — he  sniffed 
suspiciously  —  ‘  you  have  been  smoking.’ 

It  was  time  to  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot.  Their 
hearts  beat  tumultuously, 

‘  Beg  y'  pardon,  Sir,’  began  Jakin.  4  The  Reg’ment’s 
ordered  on  active  service,  Sir?  ’ 

4  So  I  believe,’  said  the  Colonel  courteously. 

‘Is  the  Band  goin’,  Sir?’  said  both  together.  Then, 
without  pause,  ‘We’re  goin’,  Sir,  ain’t  we?’ 

‘You!’  said  the  Colonel,  stepping  back  the  more 
fully  to  take  in  the  two  small  figures.  ‘You  !  You’d 
die  in  the  first  march.’ 

‘No,  we  wouldn’t,  Sir.  We  can  march  with  the 
Reg’ment  any wheres  —  p’rade  an’  anywhere  else,’  said 
Jakin. 

4  If  Tom  Kidd  goes  Vll  shut  up  like  a  clasp-knife,' 


318 


UJMJEK  THE  DEODAKS 


said  Lew.  ‘Tom  ’as  very-close  veins  in  both  ’is 
legs,  Sir.  * 

4  Very  how  much  ?  ’ 

‘  Very-close  veins,  Sir.  That’s  why  they  swells  after 
long  p’rade,  Sir.  If  ’e  can  go,  we  can  go,  Sir.’ 

Again  the  Colonel  looked  at  them  long  and  intently. 

Yes,  the  Band  is  going,  ’  he  said  as  gravely  as  though 
he  had  been  addressing  a  brother  officer.  ‘Have  you 
any  parents,  either  of  you  two  ?  ’ 

‘No,  Sir,’  rejoicingly  from  Lew  and  Jakin.  ‘We’re 
both  orphans,  Sir.  There’s  no  one  to  be  considered  of 
on  our  account,  Sir.  ’ 

You  pooi  little  sprats,  and  you  want  to  go  up  to  the 
Front  with  the  Regiment,  do  you  ?  Why  ?  * 

‘I’ve  wore  the  Queen’s  Uniform  for  two  years,  '  said 
Jakin.  ‘It’s  very  ’ard,  Sir,  that  a  man  don’t  get  no 
recompense  for  doin’  of  ’is  dooty,  Sir.’ 

‘An’  an’  if  I  don’t  go,  Sir,’  interrupted  Lew,  ‘the 
Bandmaster  ’e  says  ’e’ll  catch  an’  make  a  bloo  —  a 
blessed  musician  o’  me,  Sir.  Before  I’ve  seen  any 
service,  Sir.  ’ 

The  Colonel  made  no  answer  for  a  long  time.  Then 
he  said  quietly:  If  you’re  passed  by  the  Doctor  I  dare 

you  can  go.  I  shouldn’t  smoke  if  I  were  you.’ 

The  boys  saluted  and  disappeared.  The  Colonei 
walked  home  and  told  the  story  to  his  wife,  who  nearly 
cried  over  it.  The  Colonel  was  well  pleased.  If  that 

was  the  temper  of  the  children,  what  would  not  the 
men  do? 

Jakin  and  Lew  entered  the  boys’  barrack-room  with 
gieat  stateliness,  and  refused  to  hold  any  conversation 
with  their  comrades  for  at  least  ten  minutes.  Then, 
bursting  with  pride,  Jakin  drawled:  ‘I’ve  bin  inter- 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  319 

vooin’  the  Colonel.  Good  old  beggar  is  the  Colonel.  * 
Says  1  to  ’im  “Colonel,”  says  I,  “let  me  go  to  the 
Front,  along  o’  the  Reg’ment.”  —  “ To  the  Front  you 
shall  go,”  says  ’e,  “an’  I  only  wish  there  was  more  like 
you  among  the  dirty  little  devils  that  bang  the  bloomin 
drums.”  Kidd,  if  you  throw  your  ’courtrements  at  me 
for  tellin’  you  the  truth  to  your  own  advantage,  your 
legs’ll  swell.’ 

None  the  less  there  was  a  Battle-Royal  in  the  barrack- 
room,  for  the  boys  were  consumed  with  envy  and  hate, 
and  neither  Jakin  nor  Lew  behaved  in  conciliatory  wise. 

‘I’m  goin’  out  to  say  adoo  to  my  girl,’  said  Lew,  to 
cap  the  climax.  ‘Don’t  none  o’  you  touch  my  kit 
because  it’s  wanted  for  active  service;  me  bein’  spe¬ 
cially  invited  to  go  by  the  Colonel.’ 

He  strolled  forth  and  whistled  in  the  clump  of  trees 
at  the  back  of  the  Married  Quarters  till  Cris  came  to 
him,  and,  the  preliminary  kisses  being  given  and  taken, 
Lew  began  to  explain  the  situation. 

‘I’m  goin’  to  the  Front  with  the  Reg’ment,’  he  said 

valiantly. 

‘Piggy,  you’re  a  little  liar,  ’  said  Cris,  but  her  heart 
misgave  her,  for  Lew  was  not  in  the  habit  of  lying. 

‘Liar  yourself,  Cris,’  said  Lew,  slipping  an  arm 
round  her.  ‘I’m  goin’.  When  the  Reg’ment  marches 
out  you’ll  see  me  with  ’em,  all  galliant  and  gay.  Give 
us  another  kiss,  Cris,  on  the  strength  of  it. 

‘If  you’d  on’y  a-stayed  at  the  Depot  —  where  you 
ought  to  ha’  bin  —  you  could  get  as  many  of  ’em  as  —  as 
you  dam  please,  ’  whimpered  Cris,  putting  up  her  mouth. 

‘It’s  ’ard,  Cris.  I  grant  you  it’s  ’ard.  But  what’s 
a  man  to  do?  If  I’d  a-stayed  at  the  Dep6t,  you 
wouldn’t  think  anything  of  me.’ 


320 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Like  as  not,  but  I  d  aye  you  with  me,  Piggy.  AnT 
all  the  thinkin’  in  the  world  isn’t  like  kissinV 

‘An’  all  the  kissin’  in  the  world  isn’t  like  ’avin’ 
a  medal  to  wear  on  the  front  o’  your  coat.’ 

‘  You  won’t  get  no  medal.’ 

Oh  yus,  I  shall  though.  Me  an’  Jakin  are  the  only 
acting-drummers  that’ll  be  took  along.  All  the  rest  is 
full  men,  an’  we’ll  get  our  medals  with  them.’ 

‘They  might  ha’  taken  anybody  but  you,  Piggy, 
i  ou  11  get  killed  you  re  so  venturesome.  Stay  with 
are,  Piggy,  darlin’,  down  at  the  Dep6t,  an’  I’ll  love 
fou  true,  for  ever.  ’ 

‘Ain’t  you  goin’  to  do  that  now ,  Cris?  You  said 
pou  was.’ 

O  course  I  am,  but  th’  other’s  more  comfortable. 
*Yait  till  you’ve  growed  a  bit,  Piggy.  You  aren’t  no 
jailer  than  me  now.  ’ 

‘I’ve  bin  in  the  Army  for  two  years  an’  I’m  not  goin’ 
iO  get  out  of  a  chanst  o  seein’  service  an’  don’t  you  try 
o  make  me  do  so.  I  11  come  back,  Cris,  an’  when  I 
take  on  as  a  man  I’ll  marry  you  —  marry  you  when  I’m 
a  Lance.  ’ 

4 Promise,  Piggy?’ 

I,3w  reflected  on  the  future  as  arranged  by  Jakin  a 

shoiy  time  previously,  but  Cris’s  mouth  was  very  near 
to  liiij  own. 

I  promise,  s’elp  me,  Gawd!  ’  said  he. 

Cris  Mid  an  arm  round  his  neck. 

‘I  wou’t  ’old  you  back  no  more,  Piggy.  Go  away 
an  get  year  medal,  an  I  11  make  you  a  new  button-bag 
as  nice  as  I  know  how,  ’  she  whispered. 

‘Put  some  o’  your  ’air  into  it/ Cris,  an’  I’ll  keep  it 
in  my  pocket  so  long’s  I’m  alive.’ 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  32f 

Then  Cris  wept  anew,  and  the  interview  ended. 
Public  feeling  among  the  drummer-boys  rose  to  fever 
pitch  and  the  lives  of  Jakin  and  Lew  became  unenvi¬ 
able.  Not  only  had  they  been  permitted  to  enlist  two 
years  before  the  regulation  boy’s  age  —  fourteen  —  but, 
by  virtue,  it  seemed,  of  their  extreme  youth,  they  were 
allowed  to  go  to  the  Front  —  which  thing  had  not  hap¬ 
pened  to  acting-drummers  within  the  knowledge  of 
boy.  The  Band  which  was  to  accompany  the  Regi¬ 
ment  had  been  cut  down  to  the  regulation  twenty 
men,  the  surplus  returning  to  the  ranks.  Jakin  and 
Lew  were  attached  to  the  Band  as  supernumeraries, 
though  they  would  much  have  preferred  being  company 
buglers. 

‘’Don’t  matter  much,’  said  Jakin  after  the  medical 
inspection.  ‘Be  thankful  that  we’re  Towed  to  go  at 
all.  The  Doctor  ’e  said  that  if  we  could  stand  what  we 
took  from  the  Bazar-Sergeant’s  son  we  d  stand  pretty 
nigh  anything.  ’ 

4 Which  we  will,’  said  Lew,  looking  tenderly  at  the 
ragged  and  ill-made  housewife  that  Cris  had  given  him, 
with  a  lock  of  her  hair  worked  into  a  sprawling  ‘L’ 
upon  the  cover. 

‘It  was  the  best  I  could,’  she  sobbed.  ‘I  wouldn’t 
let  mother  nor  the  Sergeant’s  tailor  ’elp  me.  Keep  it 
always,  Piggy,  an’  remember  I  love  you  true.’ 

They  marched  to  the  railway  station,  nine  hundred 
and  sixty  strong,  and  every  soul  in  cantonments  turned 
out  to  see  them  go.  The  drummers  gnashed  their  teeth 
at  Jakin  and  Lew  marching  with  the  Band,  the  married 
women  wept  upon  the  platform,  and  the  Regiment 
cheered  its  noble  self  black  in  the  fac^. 

‘A.  n^e  level  lot,’  said  the  Colonel  tc  the  Second-in- 


322 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Command  as  they  watched  the  first  four  companies 
entraining. 

‘Fit  to  do  anything/ said  the  Second-in-Command 
enthusiastically.  ‘  But  it  seems  to  me  they’re  a  thought 
too  young  and  tender  for  the  work  in  hand.  It’s  bitter 
coid  up  at  the  Front  now.’ 

‘They’re  sound  enough,’  said  the  Colonel.  ‘We 
must  take  our  chance  of  sick  casualties.’ 

So  they  went  northward,  ever  northward,  past  droves 
ttnd  droves  of  camels,  armies  of  camp-followers,  and 
f.egions  of  laden  mules,  the  throng  thickening  day  by 
day,  till  with  a  shriek  the  train  pulled  up  at  a  hopelessly 
congested  junction  where  six  lines  of  temporary  track 
accommodated  six  forty-waggon  trains;  where  whistles 
blew,  Babus  sweated  and  Commissariat  officers  swore 
from  dawn  till  far  into  the  night  amid  the  wind-driven 

f;haff  of  the  fodder-bales  and  the  lowing  of  a  thousand 
Steers. 

‘Hurry  up  —  you’re  badly  wanted  at  the  Front,’  was 
the  message  that  greeted  the  Fore  and  Aft,  and  the 
occupants  of  the  Red  Cross  carriages  told  the  same  tale. 

‘’Tisn’t  so  much  the  bloomin’  fightin’,’  gasped  a 
headbound  trooper  of  Hussars  to  a  knot  of  admiring 
Fore  and  Afts.  ‘  ’Tisn’t  so  much  the  bloomin’  fightin’, 
bhough  there’s  enough  o’  that.  It’s  the  bloomin’  food 
an  the  bloomin  climate.  Frost  all  night  ’cept  when  it 
hails,  and  biling  sun  all  day,  and  the  water  stinks  fit 
to  knock  you  down.  I  got  my  ’ead  chipped  like  a  egg; 
t’ve  got  pneumonia  too,  an’  my  guts  is  all  out  o’  order. 
’Tain’t  no  bloomin’  picnic  in  those  parts,  I  can  tell  you.’ 

‘Wot  are  the  niggers  like?’  demanded  a  private. 

‘There’s  some  prisoners  in  that  train  yonder.  Gc 
an  look  at  em.  They’re  the  aristocracy  o’  the  country 


THE  DKUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  323 

The  common  folk  are  a  dashed  sight  uglier.  If  you 
want  to  know  what  they  fight  with,  reach  under  my 
seat  an’  pull  out  the  long  knife  that’s  there.  ’ 

They  dragged  out  and  beheld  for  the  first  time  the 
grim,  bone-handled,  triangular  Afghan  knife.  It  was 
almost  as  long  as  Lew. 

‘That’s  the  thing  to  jint  ye,’  said  the  trooper  feebly. 
‘It  can  take  off  a  man’s  arm  at  the  shoulder  as  easy  as 
slicing  butter.  I  halved  the  beggar  that  used  that  ’un, 
but  there’s  more  of  his  likes  up  above.  They  don’t 
understand  thrustin’,  but  they’re  devils  to  slice.’ 

The  men  strolled  across  the  tracks  to  inspect  the 
Afghan  prisoners.  They  were  unlike  any  ‘  niggers  ’ 
that  the  Fore  and  Aft  had  ever  met  —  these  huge,  black¬ 
haired,  scowling  sons  of  the  Beni-Israel.  As  the  men 
stared  the  Afghans  spat  freely  and  muttered  one  to 

another  with  lowered  eyes. 

‘My  eyes!  Wot  awful  swine!  ’  said  Jakin,  who  was 
in  the  rear  of  the  procession.  ‘Sa}^  old  man,  how  you 
got  puckrowed ,  eh?  Riswasti  you  wasn’t  hanged  for 
your  ugly  face,  hey  ?  ’ 

The  tallest  of  the  company  turned,  his  leg-irons 
clanking  at  the  movement,  and  stared  at  the  boy. 
‘See!  ’  he  cried  to  his  fellows  in  Pushto.  ‘They  send 
children  against  us.  What  a  people,  and  what  fools!  ’ 

‘ Hya !  ’  said  Jakin,  nodding  his  head  cheerily.  ‘You 
go  down-country.  Khana  get,  peenikapanee  get  —  live 
like  a  bloomin’  Raja  ke  marfik.  That’s  a  better  ban- 
dobust  than  baynit  get  it  in  your  innards.  Good-bye, 
ole  man.  Take  care  o’  your  beautiful  figure-  ed,  an 
try  to  look  kushy.' 

The  men  laughed  and  fell  in  for  their  first  march 
when  they  began  to  realise  that  a  soldier’s  life  was  not 


324 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


all  beer  and  skittles.  They  were  much  impressed  with 
the  size  and  bestial  ferocity  of  the  niggers  whom  they 
had  now  learned  to  call  ‘Paythans,  *  and  more  with 
the  exceeding  discomfort  of  their  own  surroundings. 
Twenty  old  soldiers  in  the  corps  would  have  taught 
them  how  to  make  themselves  moderately  snug  at  night, 
but  they  had  no  old  soldiers,  and,  as  the  troops  on  the 
line  of  march  said,  They  lived  like  pigs.  ’  They  learned 
the  heart-breaking  cussedness  of  camp-kitchens  and 
camels  and  the  depravity  of  an  E.P.  tent  and  a  wither- 
wrung  mule.  They  studied  animalculse  in  water,  and 
developed  a  few  cases  of  dysentery  in  their  study. 

At  the  end  of  their  third  march  they  were  disagreea¬ 
bly  surprised  by  the  arrival  in  their  camp  of  a  hammered 
iron  slug  which,  fired  from  a  steady  rest  at  seven  hun¬ 
dred  yards,  flicked  out  the  brains  of  a  private  seated  by 
the  fire.  This  robbed  them  of  their  peace  for  a  night, 
and  was  the  beginning  of  a  long-range  fire  carefully 
calculated  to  that  end.  In  the  daytime  they  saw  noth¬ 
ing  except  an  unpleasant  puff  of  smoke  from  a  crag 
above  the  line  of  march.  At  night  there  were  distant 
spurts  of  flame  and  occasional  casualties,  which  set  the 
whole  camp  blazing  into  the  gloom  and,  occasionally, 
into  opposite  tents.  Then  they  swore  vehemently  and 
vowed  that  this  was  magnificent  but  not  Avar. 

Indeed  it  was  not.  The  Regiment  could  not  halt  for 
reprisals  against  the  sharpshooters  of  the  country-side. 
Its  duty  was  to  go  forward  and  make  connection  with 
the  Scotch  and  Gurkha  troops  with  which  it  was  bri¬ 
gaded.  The  Afghans  knew  this,  and  knew  too,  after 
their  first  tentative  shots,  that  they  Avere  dealing  Avith  a 
raAV  regiment.  Thereafter  they  devoted  themselves  to 
the  task  of  keeping  the  Fore  and  Aft  on  the  strain. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  325 

Not  for  anything  would  they  have  taken  equal  liberties 
with  a  seasoned  corps  —  with  the  wicked  little  Gurkhas, 
whose  delight  it  was  to  lie  out  in  the  open  on  a  dark 
night  and  stalk  their  stalkers  —  with  the  terrible,  big 
men  dressed  in  women’s  clothes,  who  could  be  heard 
praying  to  their  God  in  the  night-watches,  and  whose 
peace  of  mind  no  amount  of  ‘sniping’  could  shake  — 
or  with  those  vile  Sikhs,  who  marched  so  ostentatiously 
unprepared  and  who  dealt  out  such  grim  reward  to  those 
who  tried  to  profit  by  that  unpreparedness.  This  white 
regiment  was  different  —  quite  different.  It  slept  like 
a  hog,  and,  like  a  hog,  charged  in  every  direction  when 
it  was  roused.  Its  sentries  walked  with  a  footfall  that 
could  be  heard  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile ;  would  fire  at 
anything  that  moved  —  even  a  driven  donkey  —  and 
when  they  had  once  fired,  could  be  scientifically  ‘rushed  ’ 
and  laid  out  a  horror  and  an  offence  against  the'  morn¬ 
ing  sun.  Then  there  were  camp-followers  who  strag¬ 
gled  and  could  be  cut  up  without  fear.  Their  shiieks 
would  disturb  the  white  boys,  and  the  loss  of  their  ser¬ 
vices  would  inconvenience  them  sorely. 

Thus,  at  every  march,  the  hidden  enemy  became 
bolder  and  the  regiment  writhed  and  twisted  under 
attacks  it  could  not  avenge.  The  crowning  triumph 
was  a  sudden  night-rush  ending  in  the  cutting  of  many 
tent-ropes,  the  collapse  of  the  sodden  canvas  and  a 
glorious  knifing  of  the  men  who  struggled  and  kicked 
below.  It  was  a  great  deed,  neatly  carried  out,  and  it 
shook  the  already  shaken  nerves  of  the  Fore  and  Aft. 
All  the  courage  that  they  had  been  required  to  exercise 
up  to  this. point  was  the  ‘two  o’clock  in  the  morning 
courage’ ,  and,  so  far,  they  had  only  succeeded  in  shoot* 
ing  their  comrades  and  losing  their  sleep. 


326 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Sullen,  discontented,  cold,  savage,  sick,  with  their 
uniforms  dulled  and  unclean,  the  Fore  and  Aft  joined 
their  Brigade. 

‘I  hear  you  had  a  tough  time  of  it  coming  up,’  said 
the  Brigadier.  But  when  he  saw  the  hospital-sheets 
his  face  fell. 

‘This  is  bad,’  said  he  to  himself.  ‘They’re  as  rotten 
as  sheep.’  And  aloud  to  the  Colonel  —  ‘I’m  afraid  we 
can’t  spare  you  just  yet.  We  want  all  we  have,  else 
I  should  have  given  you  ten  days  to  recover  in.’ 

The  Colonel  winced.  ‘On  my  honour,  Sir,’  he  re¬ 
turned,  ‘there  is  not  the  least  necessity  to  think  of 
sparing  us.  My  men  have  been  rather  mauled  and 
upset  without  a  fair  return.  They  only  want  to  go  in 
somewhere  where  they  can  see  what’s  before  them.’ 

‘Can’t  say  I  think  much  of  the  Fore  and  Fit,’  said 
the  Brigadier  in  confidence  to  his  Brigade-Major. 
‘They’ve  lost  all  their  soldiering,  and,  by  the  trim  of 
them,  might  have  marched  through  the  country  from 
the  other  side.  A  more  fagged-out  set  of  men  I  never 
put  eyes  on.’ 

‘Oh,  they’ll  improve  as  the  work  goes  on.  The  pa¬ 
rade  gloss  has  been  rubbed  off  a  little,  but  they’ll  put 
on  field  polish  before  long,’  said  the  Brigade-Major. 
‘They’ve  been  mauled,  and  they  quite  don’t  under¬ 
stand  it.’ 

They  did  not.  All  the  hitting  was  on  one  side,  and 
it  was  cruelly  hard  hitting  with  accessories  that  made 
them  sick.  There  was  also  the  real  sickness  that  laid 
hold  of  a  strong  man  and  dragged  him  howling  to  the 
grave.  Worst  of  all,  their  officers  knew  just  as  little 
of  the  country  as  the  men  themselves,  and  looked  as  if 
they  did.  The  Fore  and  Aft  were  in  a  thoroughly  un- 


THE  DRUMS  OP  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  327 

satisfactory  condition,  but  they  believed  that  all  would 
be  well  if  they  could  once  get  a  fair  go-in  at  the  enemy. 
Pot-shots  up  and  down  the  valleys  were  unsatisfactory, 
and  the  bayonet  never  seemed  to  get  a  chance.  Per¬ 
haps  it  was  as  well,  for  a  long-limbed  Afghan  with  a 
knife  had  a  reach  of  eight  feet,  and  could  carry  away 
lead  that  would  disable  three  Englishmen. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  would  like  some  rifle-practice  at 
the  enemy  —  all  seven  hundred  rifles  blazing  together. 
That  wish  showed  the  mood  of  the  men. 

The  Gurkhas  walked  into  their  camp,  and  in  broken, 
barrack-room  English  strove  to  fraternise  with  them; 
offered  them  pipes  of  tobacco  and  stood  them  treat  at 
the  canteen.  But  the  Fore  and  Aft,  not  knowing  much 
of  the  nature  of  the  Gurkhas,  treated  them  as  they 
would  treat  any  other  diggers,  ’  and  the  little  men  in 
green  trotted  back  to  their  firm  friends  the  Highland¬ 
ers,  and  with  many  grins  confided  to  them:  ‘That  dam 
white  regiment  no  dam  use.  Sulky  —  ugh !  Dirty  — 
ugh!  Hya,  any  tot  for  Johnny?  ’  Whereat  the  High¬ 
landers  smote  the  Gurkhas  as  to  the  head,  and  told 
them  not  to  vilify  a  British  Regiment,  and  the  Gurkhas 
grinned  cavernously,  for  the  Highlanders  were  their 
elder  brothers  and  entitled  to  the  privileges  of  kinship. 
The  common  soldier  who  touches  a  Gurkha  is  more 
than  likely  to  have  his  head  sliced  open. 

Three  days  later  the  Brigadier  arranged  a  battle 
according  to  the  rules  of  war  and  the  peculiarity  of  the 
Afghan  temperament.  The  enemy  were  massing  in 
inconvenient  strength  among  the  hills,  and  the  moving 
of  many  green  standards  warned  him  that  the  tribes 
were  ‘up’  in  aid  of  the  Afghan  regular  troops.  A 
Squadron  and  a  half  of  Bengal  Lancers  represented  the 


328 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


available  Cavalry,  and  two  screw-guns  borrowed  from 
a  column  thirty  miles  away,  the  Artillery  at  the  Gen¬ 
eral’s  disposal. 

‘If  they  stand,  as  I’ve  a  very  strong  notion  that  they 
will,  I  fancy  we  shall  see  an  infantry  fight  that  will 
be  worth  watching,’  said  the  Brigadier.  ‘We’ll  do  it 
in  style.  Each  regiment  shall  be  played  into  action 
by  its  Band,  and  we’ll  hold  the  Cavalry  in  reserve.’ 

‘For  all  the  reserve?’  somebody  asked. 

‘For  all  the  reserve;  because  we’re  going  to  crumple 
them  up,  ’  said  the  Brigadier,  who  was  an  extraordinary 
Brigadier,  and  did  not  believe  in  the  value  of  a  reserve 
when  dealing  with  Asiatics.  Indeed,  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  had  the  British  Army  consistently  waited 
for  reserves  in  all  its  little  affairs,  the  boundaries  of 
Our  Empire  would  have  stopped  at  Brighton  beach. 

That  battle  was  to  be  a  glorious  battle. 

The  three  regiments  debouching  from  three  separate 
gorges,  after  duly  crowning  the  heights  above,  were  to 
converge  from  the  centre,  left,  and  right  upon  what  we 
will  call  the  Afghan  army,  then  stationed  towards  the 
lower  extremity  of  a  flat-bottomed  valley.  Thus  it  will 
be  seen  that  three  sides  of  the  valley  practically  be¬ 
longed  to  the  English,  while  the  fourth  was  strictly 
Afghan  property.  In  the  event  of  defeat  the  Afghans 
had  the  rocky  hills  to  fly  to,  where  the  fire  from  the 
guerilla  tribes  in  aid  would  cover  their  retreat.  In  the 
event  of  victory  these  same  tribes  would  rush  down  and 
lend  their  weight  to  the  rout  of  the  British. 

The  screw-guns  were  to  shell  the  head  of  each  Afghan 
rush  that  was  made  in  close  formation,  and  the  Cavalry, 
held  in  reserve  in  the  right  valley,  were  to  gently 
stimulate  the  break-up  which  would  follow  on  the 


THE  DRUMS  OE  THE  FORE  AND  AFT 


329 

combined  attack.  The  Brigadier,  sitting  upon  a  rock 
overlooking  the  valley,  would  watch  the  battle  unrolled 
at  his  feet.  The  Fore  and  Aft  would  debouch  from 
the  central  gorge,  the  Gurkhas  from  the  left,  and  the 
Highlanders  from  the  right,  for  the  reason  that  the  left 
flank  of  the  enemy  seemed  as  though  it  required  the 
most  hammering.  It  was  not  every  day  that  an  Afghan 
force  would  take  ground  in  the  open,  and  the  Brigadier 
was  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

‘If  we  only  had  a  few  more  men,’ he  said  plaintively, 
‘we  could  surround  the  creatures  and  crumple  ’em  up 
thoroughly.  As  it  is,  I’m  afraid  we  can  only  cut  them 
up  as  they  run.  It’s  a  great  pity.’ 

The  Fore  and  Aft  had  enjoyed  unbroken  peace  for 
five  days,  and  were  beginning,  in  spite  of  dysentery, 
to  recover  their  nerve.  But  they  were  not  happy,  for 
they  did  not  know  the  work  in  hand,  and  had  they 
known,  would  not  have  known  how  to  do  it.  Through¬ 
out  those  five  days  in  which  old  soldiers  might  have 
taught  them  the  craft  of  the  game,  they  discussed  to¬ 
gether  their  misadventures  in  the  past  —  how  such  an 
one  was  alive  at  dawn  and  dead  ere  the  dusk,  and  with 
what  shrieks  and  struggles  such  another  had  given  up 
his  soul  under  the  Afghan  knife.  Heath  was  a  new 
and  honible  thing  to  the  sons  of  mechanics  who  were 
used  to  die  decently  of  zymotic  disease ;  and  their  care¬ 
ful  conservation  in  barracks  had  done  nothing  to  make 
them  look  upon  it  with  less  dread. 

Very  early  in  the  dawn  the  bugles  began  to  blow, 
and  the  F ore  and  Aft,  filled  with  a  misguided  enthusi¬ 
asm,  turned  out  without  waiting  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
a  biscuit ;  and  were  rewarded  by  being  kept  under  arms 
in  the  cold  while  the  other  regiments  leisurely  prepared 


330 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


for  the  fray.  All  the  world  knows  that  it  is  ill  taking 
the  breeks  off  a  Highlander.  It  is  much  iller  to  try  to 
make  him  stir  unless  he  is  convinced  of  the  necessity 
for  haste. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  waited,  leaning  upon  their  rifles 
and  listening  to  the  protests  of  their  empty  stomachs. 
The  Colonel  did  his  best  to  remedy  the  default  of  lin¬ 
ing  as  soon  as  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  the  affair 
would  not  begin  at  once,  and  so  well  did  he  succeed 
that  the  coffee  was  just  ready  when  —  the  men  moved 
off,  their  Band  leading.  Even  then  there  had  been  a 
mistake  in  time,  and  the  Fore  and  Aft  came  out  into 
the  valley  ten  minutes  before  the  proper  hour.  Their 
Band  wheeled  to  the  right  after  reaching  the  open,  and 
retired  behind  a  little  rocky  knoll  still  playing  while 
the  Regiment  went  past. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  sight  that  opened  on  the  unin¬ 
structed  view,  for  the  lower  end  of  the  valley  appeared 
to  be  filled  by  an  army  in  position  —  real  and  actual 
regiments  attired  in  red  coats,  and  —  of  this  there  was 
no  doubt  —  firing  Martini-Henri  bullets  which  cut  up 
the  ground  a  hundred  yards  in  front  of  the  leading 
company.  Over  that  pock-marked  ground  the  Regiment 
had  to  pass,  and  it  opened  the  ball  with  a  general  and 
profound  courtesy  to  the  piping  pickets;  ducking  in 
perfect  time,  as  though  it  had  been  brazed  on  a  rod. 
Being  half-capable  of  thinking  for  itself,  it  fired  a  vol¬ 
ley  by  the  simple  process  of  pitching  its  rifle  into  its 
shoulder  and  pulling  the  trigger.  The  bullets  may 
have  accounted  for  some  of  the  watchers  on  the  hillside, 
but  they  certainly  did  not  affect  the  mass  of  enemy  in 
front,  while  the  noise  of  the  rifles  drowned  any  orders 
that  might  have  been  given. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  331 

‘Good  God!  ’  said  the  Brigadier,  sitting  on  the  rock 
high  above  all.  ‘That  regiment  has  spoilt  the  whole 
show.  Hurry  up  the  others,  and  let  the  screw-guns 
get  off.  ’ 

But  the  screw-guns,  in  working  round  the  heights, 
had  stumbled  upon  a  wasp’s  nest  of  a  small  mud  fort 
which  they  incontinently  shelled  at  eight  hundred 
yards,  to  the  huge  discomfort  of  the  occupants,  who 
were  unaccustomed  to  weapons  of  such  devilish  pre¬ 
cision. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  continued  to  go  forward  but  with 
shortened  stride.  Where  were  the  other  regiments,  and 
why  did  these  niggers  use  Martinis  ?  They  took  open 
order  instinctively,  lying  down  and  firing  at  random, 
rushing  a  few  paces  forward  and  lying  down  again, 
according  to  the  regulations.  Once  in  this  formation, 
each  man  felt  himself  desperately  alone,  and  edged  in 
towards  his  fellow  for  comfort’s  sake. 

Then  the  crack  of  his  neighbour’s  rifle  at  his  ear  led 
him  to  fire  as  rapidly  as  he  could  —  again  for  the  sake 
of  the  comfort  of  the  noise.  The  reward  was  not  long 
delayed.  Five  volleys  plunged  the  files  in  banked 
smoke  impenetrable  to  the  eye,  and  the  bullets  began 
to  take  ground  twenty  or  thirty  yards  in  front  of  the 
firers,  as  the  weight  of  the  bayonet  dragged  down  and 
to  the  right  arms  wearied  with  holding  the  kick  of  the 
leaping  Martini.  The  Company  Commanders  peered 
helplessly  through  the  smoke,  the  more  nervous  me¬ 
chanically  trying  to  fan  it  away  with  their  helmets. 

‘High  and  to  the  left!  ’  bawled  a  Captain  till  he  was 
hoarse.  ‘No  good!  Cease  firing,  and  let  it  drift  away 
a  bit.  ’ 

Three  and  four  times  the  bugles  shrieked  the  order, 


332 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


and  when  it  was  obeyed  the  Fore  and  Aft  looked  that 
their  foe  should  be  lying  before  them  in  mown  swaths 
of  men.  A  light  wind  drove  the  smoke  to  leeward, 
and  showed  the  enemy  still  in  position  and  apparently 
unaffected.  A  quarter  of  a  ton  of  lead  had  been  buried 
a  furlong  in  front  of  them,  as  the  ragged  earth  attested. 

That  was  not  demoralising  to  the  Afghans,  who  have 
not  European  nerves.  They  were  waiting  for  the  mad 
riot  to  die  down,  and  were  firing  quietly  into  the  heart 
of  the  smoke.  A  private  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  spun  up 
his  company  shrieking  with  agony,  another  was  kick¬ 
ing  the  earth  and  gasping,  and  a  third,  ripped  through 
the  lower  intestines  by  a  jagged  bullet,  was  calling 
aloud  on  his  comrades  to  put  him  out  of  his  pain. 
These  were  the  casualties,  and  they  were  not  soothing 
to  hear  or  see.  The  Smoke  cleared  to  a  dull  haze. 

Then  the  foe  began  to  shout  with  a  great  shouting 
and  a  mass  —  a  black  mass  —  detached  itself  from  the 
main  body,  and  rolled  over  the  ground  at  horrid  speed. 
It  was  composed  of,  perhaps,  three  hundred  men,  who 
would  shout  and  fire  and  slash  if  the  rush  of  their  fifty 
comrades  who  were  determined  to  die  carried  home. 
The  fifty  were  Ghazis,  half-maddened  with  drugs  and 
wholly  mad  with  religious  fanaticism.  When  they 
rushed  the  British  fire  ceased,  and  in  the  lull  the  order 
was  given  to  close  ranks  and  meet  them  with  the 
bayonet. 

Any  one  who  knew  the  business  could  have  told  the 
Fore  and  Aft  that  the  only  way  of  dealing  with  a  Ghazi 
rush  is  by  volleys  at  long  ranges ;  because  a  man  who 
means  to  die,  who  desires  to  die,  who  will  gain  heaven 
by  dying,  must,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  kill  a  man 
who  has  a  lingering  prejudice  in  favour  of  life.  Where 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  333 

they  should  have  closed  and  gone  forward,  the  Fore 
and  Aft  opened  out  and  skirmished,  and  where  they 
should  have  opened  out  and  fired,  they  closed  and 
waited. 

A  man  dragged  from  his  blankets  half  awake  and 
unfed  is  never  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind.  Nor  does 
his  happiness  increase  when  he  watches  the  whites  of 
the  eyes  of  three  hundred  six-foot  fiends  upon  whose 
beards  the  foam  is  lying,  upon  whose  tongues  is  a  roar 
of  wrath,  and  in  whose  hands  are  yard-long  knives. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  heard  the  Gurkha  bugles  bringing 
that  regiment  forward  at  the  double,  while  the  neigh¬ 
ing  of  the  Highland  pipes  came  from  the  left.  They 
strove  to  stay  where  they  were,  though  the  bayonets 
wavered  down  the  line  like  the  oars  of  a  ragged  boat. 
Then  they  felt  body  to  body  the  amazing  physical 
strength  of  their  foes;  a  shriek  of  pain  ended  the  rusn, 
and  the  knives  fell  amid  scenes  not  to  be  told.  The 
men  clubbed  together  and  smote  blindly  —  as  often  as 
not  at  their  own  fellows.  Their  front  crumpled  like 
paper,  and  the  fifty  Ghazis  passed  on;  their  backers, 
now  drunk  with  success,  fighting  as  madly  as  they. 

Then  the  rear-ranks  were  bidden  to  close  up,  and  the 
subalterns  dashed  into  the  stew  —  alone.  For  the  rear- 
ranks  had  heard  the  clamour  in  front,  the  yells  and  the 
howls  of  pain,  and  had  seen  the  dark  stale  blood  that 
makes  afraid.  They  were  not  going  to  stay.  It  was 
the  rushing  of  the  camps  over  again.  Let  their  officers 
go  to  Hell,  if  they  chose ;  they  would  get  away  from 
the  knives. 

‘Come  on!’  shrieked  the  subalterns,  and  their  men, 
cursing  them,  drew  back,  each  closing  into  his  neigh¬ 
bour  and  wheeling  round. 


334 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


Charteris  and  Devlin,  subalterns  of  the  last  company, 
faced  their  death  alone  in  the  belief  that  their  men 
would  follow. 

‘You’ve  killed  me,  you  cowards,’  sobbed  Devlin  and 
dropped,  cut  from  the  shoulder-strap  to  the  centre  of 
the  chest,  and  a  fresh  detachment  of  his  men  retreating, 
always  retreating,  trampled  him  under  foot  as  they 
made  for  the  pass  whence  they  had  emerged. 

I  kissed  her  in  the  kitchen  and  I  kissed  her  in  the  hall. 

Chiid’un,  child’un,  follow  me  ! 

Oh  Golly,  said  the  cook,  is  he  gwine  to  kiss  us  all  ? 

Halla  —  Halla  —  Halla  —  Hallelujah ! 

The  Gurkhas  were  pouring  through  the  left  gorge 
and  over  the  heights  at  the  double  to  the  invitation  of 
their  Regimental  Quick-step.  The  black  rocks  were 
crowned  with  dark  green  spiders  as  the  bugles  gave 
tongue  jubilantly:  — 

In  the  morning !  In  the  morning  by  the  bright  light ! 

When  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  in  the  morning ! 

The  Gurkha  rear-companies  tripped  and  blundered 
over  loose  stones.  The  front-files  halted  for  a  moment 
to  take  stock  of  the  valley  and  to  settle  stray  boot-laces. 
Then  a  happy  little  sigh  of  contentment  soughed  down 
the  ranks,  and  it  was  as  though  the  land  smiled,  for 
behold  there  below  was  the  enemy,  and  it  was  to  meet 
them  that  the  Gurkhas  had  doubled  so  hastily.  There 
was  much  enemy.  There  would  be  amusement.  The 
little  men  hitched  their  kukris  well  to  hand,  and  gaped 
expectantly  at  their  officers  as  terriers  grin  ere  the  stone 
is  cast  for  them  to  fetch.  The  Gurkhas’  ground  sloped 
downward  to  the  valley,  and  they  enjoyed  a  fair  view 
of  the  proceedings.  They  sat  upon  the  bowlders  to 
watch,  for  their  officers  were  not  going  to  waste  their 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  335 

wind  in  assisting  to  repulse  a  Ghazi  rush  more  than  half  a 
mile  away.  Let  the  white  men  look  to  their  own  front. 

‘Hi!  yil’  said  the  Subadar-Major,  who  was  sweat¬ 
ing  profusely.  ‘Dam  fools  yonder,  stand  close-order! 
This  is  no  time  for  close  order,  it  is  the  time  for  vol¬ 
leys.  Ugh!  ’ 

Horrified,  amused,  and  indignant,  the  Gurkhas  be¬ 
held  the  retirement  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  with  a  running 
chorus  of  oaths  and  commentaries. 

‘They  run!  The  white  men  run!  Colonel  Sahib, 
may  we  also  do  a  little  running?’  murmured  Runbir 
Thappa,  the  Senior  Jemadar. 

But  the  Colonel  would  have  none  of  it.  ‘Let  the 
beggars  be  cut  up  a  little,  ’  said  he  wrathfully.  ‘  ’Serves 
’em  right.  They’ll  be  prodded  into  facing  round  in  a 
minute.’  He  looked  through  his  field-glasses,  and 
caught  the  glint  of  an  officer’s  sword. 

‘Beating  ’em  with  the  flat  —  damned  conscripts! 
How  the  Ghazis  are  walking  into  them!  ’  said  he. 

The  Fore  and  Aft,  heading  back,  bore  with  them 
their  officers.  The  narrowness  of  the  pass  forced  the 
mob  into  solid  formation,  and  the  rear-ranks  delivered 
some  sort  of  a  wavering  volley.  The  Ghazis  drew  off, 
for  they  did  not  know  what  reserve  the  gorge  might 
hide.  Moreover,  it  was  never  wise  to  chase  white 
men  too  far.  They  returned  as  wolves  return  to  cover, 
satisfied  with  the  slaughter  that  they  had  done,  and 
only  stopping  to  slash  at  the  wounded  on  the  ground. 
A  quarter  of  a  mile  had  the  Fore  and  Aft  retreated, 
and  now,  jammed  in  the  pass,  was  quivering  with  pain, 
shaken  and  demoralised  with  fear,  while  the  officers, 
maddened  beyond  control,  smote  the  men  with  the  hilts 
and  the  flats  of  their  swords. 


336 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


‘Get  back!  Get  back,  you  cowards — you  women! 
Right  about  face  —  column  of  companies,  form  —  you 
hounds !  ’  shouted  the  Colonel,  and  the  subalterns  swore 
aloud.  But  the  Regiment  wanted  to  go  —  to  go  any¬ 
where  out  of  the  range  of  those  merciless  knifes.  It 
swayed  to  and  fro  irresolutely  with  shouts  and  outcries, 
while  from  the  right  the  Gurkhas  dropped  volley  after 
volley  of  cripple-stopper  Snider  bullets  at  long  range 
into  the  mob  of  the  Ghazis  returning  to  their  own  troops. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  Band,  though  protected  from 
direct  fire  by  the  rocky  knoll  under  which  it  had  sat 
down,  fled  at  the  first  rush.  Jakin  and  Lew  would 
have  fled  also,  but  their  short  legs  left  them  fifty  yards 
in  the  rear,  and  by  the  time  the  Band  had  mixed  with 
the  Regiment,  they  were  painfully  aware  that  they  would 
have  to  close  in  alone  and  unsupported. 

‘Get  back  to  that  rock,’  gasped  Jakin.  ‘They  won’t 
see  us  there.’ 

And  they  returned  to  the  scattered  instruments  of  the 
Band;  their  hearts  nearly  bursting  their  ribs. 

‘Here’s  a  nice  show  for  us, ’  said  Jakin,  throwing 
himself  full  length  on  the  ground.  ‘A  bloomin’  fine 
show  for  British  Infantry!  Oh,  the  devils!  They’ve 
gone  an’  left  us  alone  here!  Wot’ll  we  do?’ 

Lew  took  possession  of  a  cast-off  water  bottle,  which 
naturally  was  full  of  canteen  .rum,  and  drank  till  he 
coughed  again. 

‘Drink,’  said  he  shortly.  ‘They’ll  come  back  in  a 
minute  or  two  —  you  see.  ’ 

Jakin  drank,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  the  Regiment’s 
return.  They  could  hear  a  dull  clamour  from  the  head 
of  the  valley  of  retreat,  and  saw  the  Ghazis  slink  back, 
quickening  their  pace  as  the  Gurkhas  fired  at  them. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  337 

'We’re  all  that’s  left  of  the  Baud,  an’  we’ll  be  cut  up 
&s  sure  as  death,’  said  Jakin. 

‘I’ll  die  game,  then,’  said  Lew  thickly,  fumbling  with 
his  tiny  drummer’s  sword.  The  drink  was  working  on 
his  brain  as  it  was  on  Jakin’s. 

‘’Old  on!  I  know  something  better  than  fightin’,’ 
said  Jakin,  stung  by  the  splendour  of  a  sudden  thought 
due  chiefly  to  rum.  ‘Tip  our  bloomin’  cowards  yonder 
the  word  to  come  back.  The  Pay  than  beggars  are  well 
away.  Come  on,  Lew !  We  won’t  get  hurt.  Take  the 
fife  an’  give  me  the  drum.  The  Old  Step  for  all  your 
bloomin’  guts  are  worth!  There’s  a  few  of  our  men 
coming  back  now.  Stand  up,  ye  drunken  little  defaulter. 
By  your  right  —  quick  march!  ’ 

He  slipped  the  drum-sling  over  his  shoulder,  thrust 
the  fife  into  Lew’s  hand,  and  the  two  boys  marched  out 
of  the  cover  of  the  rock  into  the  open,  making  a  hideous 
hash  of  the  first  bars  of  the  ‘British  Grenadiers.’ 

As  Lew  had  said,  a  few  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  were 
coming  back  sullenly  add  shamefacedly  under  the  stimu¬ 
lus  of  blows  and  abuse;  their  red  coats  shone  at  the 
head  of  the  valley,  and  behind  them  were  wavering 
bayonets.  But  between  this  shattered  line  and  the 
enemy,  who  with  Afghan  suspicion  feared  that  the 
hasty  retreat  meant  an  ambush,  and  had  not  moved 
therefore,  lay  half  a  mile  of  a  level  ground  dotted  only 
by  the  wounded. 

The  tune  settled  into  full  swing  and  the  boys  kept 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  Jakin  banging  the  drum  as  one 
possessed.  The  one  fife  made  a  thin  and  pitiful  squeak¬ 
ing,  but  the  tune  carried  far,  even  to  the  Gurkhas. 

‘Come  on,  you  dogs!’  muttered  Jakin  to  himself. 
‘Are  we  to  play  forhever?’  Lew  was  staring  straight 


338 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


in  front  of  him  and  marching  more  stiffly  than  ever  he 
had  done  on  parade. 

And  in  bitter  mockery  of  the  distant  mob,  the  old 
tune  of  the  Old  Line  shrilled  and  rattled:  — » 

Some  talk  of  Alexander, 

And  some  of  Hercules ; 

Of  Hector  and  Lysander, 

And  such  great  names  as  these  ! 

There  was  a  far-off  clapping  of  hands  from  the  Gur¬ 
khas,  and  a  roar  from  the  Highlanders  in  the  distance, 
but  never  a  shot  was  fired  by  British  or  Afghan.  The 
two  little  red  dots  moved  forward  in  the  open  parallel 
to  the  enemy’s  front. 

But  of  all  the  world’s  great  heroes 
There’s  none  that  can  compare. 

With  a  tow-row-row-row-row-row, 

To  the  British  Grenadier ! 

The  men  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  were  gathering  thick  at 
the  entrance  into  the  plain.  The  Brigadier  on  the 
heights  far  above  was  speechless  with  rage.  Still  no 
movement  from  the  enemy.  The  day  stayed  to  watch 
the  children. 

Jakin  halted  and  beat  the  long  roll  of  the  Assembly, 
while  the  fife  squealed  despairingly. 

‘Right  about  face!  Hold  up,  Lew,  you’re  drunk,* 
said  Jakin.  They  wheeled  and  marched  back:  — 

Those  heroes  of  antiquity 
Ne’er  saw  a  cannon-ball, 

Nor  knew  the  force  o’  powder, 

‘Here  they  come!  ’  said  Jakin.  ‘Go  on,  Lew’:  — 

To  scare  their  foes  withal! 

The  Fore  and  Aft  were  pouring  out  of  the  valley. 


THE  DRUMS  OP  THE  FORE  AND  AFT 


339 


.What  officers  had  said  to  men  in  that  time  of  shame  and 
humiliation  will  never  be  known;  for  neither  officers 
nor  men  speak  of  it  now. 

‘They  are  coming  anew!  ’  shouted  a  priest  among  the 
Afghans.  ‘Do  not  kill  the  boys!  Take  them  alive, 
and  they  shall  be  of  our  faith.  ’ 

But  the  first  volley  had  been  fired,  and  Lew  dropped 
on  his  face.  Jakin  stood  for  a  minute,  spun  round  and 
collapsed,  as  the  Fore  and  Aft  came  forward,  the  curses 
of  their  officers  in  their  ears,  and  in  their  hearts  the 
shame  of  open  shame. 

Half  the  men  had  seen  the  drummers  die,  and  they 
made  no  sign.  They  did  not  even  shout.  They  doubled 
out  straight  across  the  plain  in  open  order,  and  they  did 
not  fire. 

‘This,'  said  the  Colonel  of  Gurkhas,  softly,  ‘is  the 
real  attack,  as  it  should  have  been  delivered.  Come 
on,  my  children.’ 

‘  Ulu-lu-lu-lu !  ’  squealed  the  Gurkhas,  and  came  down 
with  a  joyful  clicking  of  kukris  —  those  vicious  Gurkha 
knives. 

On  the  right  there  was  no  rush.  The  Highlanders, 
cannily  commending  their  souls  to  God  (for  it  matters 
as  much  to  a  dead  man  whether  he  has  been  shot  in  a 
Border  scuffle  or  at  Waterloo),  opened  out  and  fired 
according  to  their  custom,  that  is  to  say  without  heat 
and  without  intervals,  while  the  screw-guns,  having 
disposed  of  the  impertinent  mud  fort  aforementioned, 
dropped  shell  after  shell  into  the  clusters  round  the 
flickering  green  standards  on  the  heights. 

‘Charrging  is  an  unfortunate  necessity,’  murmured 
the  Colour-Sergeant  of  the  right  company  of  the  High¬ 
landers.  ‘It  makes  the  men  sweer  so,  but  I  am  thinkin’ 


340 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


that  it  will  come  to  a  change  if  these  black  devils  stand 
much  longer.  Stewarrt,  man,  you’re  firing  into  the  eye 
of  the  sun,  and  he’ll  not  take  any  harm  for  Government 
ammuneetion.  A  foot  lower  and  a  great  deal  slower! 
What  are  the  English  doing?  They’re  very  quiet  there 
in  the  centre.  Running  again?’ 

The  English  were  not  running.  They  were  hacking 
and  hewing  and  stabbing,  for  though  one  white  man  is 
seldom  physically  a  match  for  an  Afghan  in  a  sheepskin 
or  wadded  coat,  yet,  through  the  pressure  of  many  white 
men  behind,  and  a  certain  thirst  for  revenge  in  his 
heart,  he  becomes  capable  of  doing  much  with  both  ends 
of  his  rifle.  The  Fore  and  Aft  held  their  fire  till  one 
bullet  could  drive  through  five  or  six  men,  and  the  front 
of  the  Afghan  force  gave  on  the  volley.  They  then 
selected  their  men,  and  slew  them  with  deep  gasps  and 
short  hacking  coughs,  and  groan ings  of  leather  belts 
against  strained  bodies,  and  realised  for  the  first  time 
that  an  Afghan  attacked  is  far  less  formidable  than  an 
Afghan  attacking;  which  fact  old  soldiers  might  have 
told  them. 

But  they  had  no  old  soldiers  in  their  ranks. 

The  Gurkhas’  stall  at  the  bazar  was  the  noisiest,  for 
the  men  were  engaged — to  a  nasty  noise  as  of  beef 
being  cut  on  the  block  —  with  the  kukri,  which  they  pre¬ 
ferred  to  the  bayonet';  well  knowing  how  the  Afghan 
hates  the  lialf-moon  blade. 

As  the  Afghans  wavered,  the  green  standards  on  the 
mountain  moved  down  to  assist  them  in  a  last  rally. 
This  was  unwise.  The  Lancers  chafing  in  the  right 
gorge  had  thrice  despatched  their  only  subaltern  as  gal¬ 
loper  to  report  on  the  progress  of  affairs.  On  the  third 
occasion  he  returned,  with  a  bullet-graze  on  his  knee. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT  341 

swearing  strange  oaths  in  Hindustani,  and  saying  that 
all  things  were  ready.  So  that  Squadron  swung  round 
the  right  of  the  Highlanders  with  a  wicked  whistling  of 
wind  in  the  pennons  of  its  lances,  and  fell  upon  the  rem¬ 
nant  just  when,  according  to  all  the  rules  of  war,  it 
should  have  waited  for  the  foe  to  show  more  signs  of 
wavering. 

But  it  was  a  dainty  charge,  deftly  delivered,  and  it 
ended  by  the  Cavalry  finding  itself  at  the  head  of  the 
pass  by  which  the  Afghans  intended  to  retreat  ;  and 
down  the  track  that  the  lances  had  made  streamed 
two  companies  of  the  Highlanders,  which  was  never 
intended  by  the  Brigadier.  The  new  development 
was  successful.  It  detached  the  enemy  from  his  base 
as  a  sponge  is  torn  from  a  rock,  and  left  him  ringed 
about  with  fire  in  that  pitiless  plain.  And  as  a  sponge 
is  chased  round  the  bath-tub  by  the  hand  of  the  bather, 
so  were  the  Afghans  chased  till  they  broke  into  little 
detachments  much  more  difficult  to  dispose  of  than 
large  masses. 

4  See  !  ’  quoth  the  Brigadier.  6  Everything  has  come 
as  I  arranged.  We’ve  cut  their  base,  and  now  well 
bucket  ’em  to  pieces.’ 

A  direct  hammering  was  all  that  the  Brigadier  had 
dared  to  hope  for,  considering  the  size  of  the  force  at 
his  disposal;  but  men  who  stand  or  fall  by  the  enois  of 
their  opponents  may  be  forgiven  for  turning  Chance 
into  Design.  The  bucketing  went  forward  menil}. 
The  Afghan  forces  were  upon  the  run  —  the  run  of 
wearied  wolves  who  snarl  and  bite  over  taeir  shoulders. 
The  red  lances  dipped  by  twos  and  threes,  and,  with  a 
shriek,  uprose  the  lance-butt,  like  a  spar  on  a  stormy 
sea,  as  the  trooper  cantering  forward  cleared  his  point. 


342 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


The  Lancers  kept  between  their  prey  and  the  steep  hills, 
for  all  who  could  were  trying  to  escape  from  the  valley 
of  death.  The  Highlanders  gave  the  fugitives  two  hun¬ 
dred  yards’  law,  and  then  brought  them  down,  gasping 
and  choking  ere  they  could  reach  the  protection  of  the 
bowlders  above.  The  Gurkhas  followed  suit;  but  the 
Fore  and  Aft  were  killing  on  their  own  account,  for 
they  had  penned  a  mass  of  men  between  their  bayonets 
and  a  wall  of  rock,  and  the  flash  of  the  rifles  was  light¬ 
ing  the  wadded  coats. 

‘We  cannot  hold  them,  Captain  Sahib!’  panted  a 
Ressaidar  of  Lancers.  ‘Let  us  try  the  carbine.  The 
lance  is  good,  but  it  wastes  time.  ’ 

They  tried  the  carbine,  and  still  the  enemy  melted 
away  —  fled  up  the  hills  by  hundreds  when  there  were 
only  twenty  bullets  to  stop  them.  On  the  heights  the 
screw-guns  ceased  firing  —  they  had  run  out  of  ammuni¬ 
tion  —  and  the  Brigadier  groaned,  for  the  musketry  fire 
could  not  sufficiently  smash  the  retreat.  Long  before 
the  last  volleys  were  fired,  the  doolies  were  out  in  force 
looking  for  the  wounded.  The  battle  was  over,  and, 
but  for  want  of  fresh  troops,  the  Afghans  would  have 
been  wiped  off  the  earth.  As  it  was  they  counted  their 
dead  by  hundreds,  and  nowhere  were  the  dead  thicker 
than  in  the  track  of  the  Fore  and  Aft. 

But  the  Regiment  did  not  cheer  with  the  Highlanders, 
nor  did  they  dance  uncouth  dances  with  the  Gurkhas 
among  the  dead.  They  looked  under  their  brows  at  the 
Colonel  as  they  leaned  upon  their  rifles  and  panted. 

‘Get  back  to  camp,  you.  Haven’t  you  disgraced 
yourself  enough  for  one  day!  Go  and  look  to  the 
wounded.  It’s  all  you’re  fit  for,’  said  the  Colonel. 
Yet  for  the  past  hour  the  Fore  and  Aft  had  been  doing 


343 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT 

all  that  mortal  commander  could  expect.  They  had  lost 
heavily  because  they  did  not  know  how  to  set  about 
their  business  with  proper  skill,  but  they  had  borne 
themselves  gallantly,  and  this  was  their  reward. 

A  young  and  sprightly  Colour-Sergeant,  who  had 
begun  to  imagine  himself  a  hero,  offered  his  water 
bottle  to  a  Highlander,  whose  tongue  was  black  with 
thirst.  ‘I  drink  with  no  cowards,  ’  answered  the  young- 
iter  huskily,  and,  turning  to  a  Gurkha,  said,  ‘Hya, 
Johnny!  Drink  water  got  it?’  The  Gurkha  grinned 
and  passed  his  bottle.  The  Fore  and  Aft  said  no  word. 

They  went  back  to  camp  when  the  field  of  strife  had 
been  a  little  mopped  up  and  made  presentable,  and  the 
Brigadier,  who  saw  himself  a  Knight  in  three  months, 
was  the  only  soul  who  was  complimentary  to  them. 
The  Colonel  was  heart-broken,  and  the  officers  were 
savage  and  sullen. 

‘Well,’  said  the  Brigadier,  ‘they  are  young  troops  of 
course,  and  it  was  not  unnatural  that  they  should  retire 
in  disorder  for  a  bit.  ’ 

‘Oh,  my  only  Aunt  Maria!  ’  murmured  a  junior  Staff 
Officer.  ‘Retire  in  disorder!  It  was  a  bally  run !  ’ 

‘But  they  came  again  as  we  all  know,’  cooed  the 
Brigadier,  the  Colonel’s  ashy-white  face  befoie  him, 
‘and  they  behaved  as  well  as  could  possibly  be  expected. 
Behaved  beautifully,  indeed.  I  was  watching  them. 
It’s  not  a  matter  to  take  to  heart,  Colonel.  As  some 
German  General  said  of  his  men,  they  wanted  to  be 
shooted  over  a  little,  that  was  all.  ’  To  himself  he  said 
—  ‘Now  they’re  blooded  I  can  give  ’em  responsible 
work.  It’s  as  well  that  they  got  what  they  did.  ’Teach 
’em  more  than  half  a  dozen  rifle  flirtations,  that  will 
later  —  run  alone  and  bite.  Poor  old  Colonel,  though. 


344 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 


All  that  afternoon  the  heliograph  winked  and  flickered 
on  the  hills,  striving  to  tell  the  good  news  to  a  moun¬ 
tain  forty  miles  away.  And  in  the  evening  there 
arrived,  dusty,  sweating,  and  sore,  a  misguided  Corre¬ 
spondent  who  had  gone  out  to  assist  at  a  trumpery 
village-burning,  and  who  had  read  off  the  message  from 
afar,  cursing  his  luck  the  while. 

‘Let’s  have  the  details  somehow  —  as  full  as  ever  you 
can,  please.  It’s  the  first  time  I’ve  ever  been  left  this 
campaign,  ’  said  the  Correspondent  to  the  Brigadier,  and 
the  Brigadier,  nothing  loth,  told  him  how  an  Army  of 
Communication  had  been  crumpled  up,  destroyed,  and 
all  but  annihilated  by  the  craft,  strategy,  wisdom,  and 
foresight  of  the  Brigadier. 

But  some  say,  and  among  these  be  the  Gurkhas  who 
watched  on  the  hillside,  that  that  battle  was  won  by 
Jakin  and  Lew,  whose  little  bodies  were  borne  up  just 
in  time  to  fit  two  gaps  at  the  head  of  the  big  ditch-grave 
for  the  dead  under  the  heights  of  Jagai- 


THLB  END 


